


hear me pleading

by Living_On_My_Own, oatrevolution



Series: take a chance with me [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Freddie is an insecure bean, Freddie thinks Brian is hot stuff, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, journalists are still jerks, kash is a good sister, not like he'll ever say anything about it, social media is the bane of everyone's existence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_On_My_Own/pseuds/Living_On_My_Own, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution/pseuds/oatrevolution
Summary: Queen's just starting to make it big, but in a modern and toxic world of cell phones and social media, it's not just the journalists who can broadcast hurtful opinions. Freddie, in particular, is struggling to cope—not that he'll admit it.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Series: take a chance with me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985905
Comments: 57
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! We're very excited to welcome you to our very first collaboration. We were so excited to get started that we actually wrote this entire chapter in less than a day! Turns out that writing with another person is even more fun than we thought it would be :D
> 
> Please enjoy, and we'll see you with chapter two!

The crowd’s still screaming as they stumble off the stage into the dark. The dressing room’s somewhere up ahead, not that any of them can really tell where they’re going after the glare of stage lights and cell phone cameras pointed in their eyes.

This was actually probably the best show they’ve ever had. There had been absolutely no technical problems and the public had been adorable, singing along to most songs and cheering like crazy. Freddie’s voice was the best it had been in weeks, probably because of how relaxed and confident he felt that night. Roger hadn’t missed a beat of any songs, followed by John’s incredible bass skills that impressed everyone. Brian had played his guitar that night like he was born with it in his hands, his fingers made to move on the strings of Red Special. None of them could think of a better night, gleeful glances shared mid-song communicating this more clearly than words ever could.

But their opinion doesn’t seem to be shared by everyone. 

They’re in the dressing room when everything goes wrong. The atmosphere is amazing, celebratory, all of them still riding high from the amazing energy on stage. Freddie actually accepts a high-five from Roger, too pleased to be self-conscious at how dorky he probably looks, and he’s just settled in front of the tiny room’s single mirror when John speaks up.

“Well, shit,” he says plainly. He’s calm as always—no hint of the catastrophe to come, no way for Freddie to brace himself.

“What is it, dear?” Freddie gropes through the mess on the table for the makeup remover. His eyeliner is a tad smudged, but even that’s not enough to upset him. Not yet.

“You remember that bloke from the press who came up to us before the show, yeah?”

And Freddie’s heart sinks. He knows, somehow, what’s coming next, even before John, who he now sees is holding his phone, reads out what the man has commented:

“Just saw @QueenOfficial. Two-second review: totally lame, singer is a ponce, do NOT recommend.”

“Prick,” Roger mutters into the ensuing silence.

Suddenly, Freddie doesn’t feel as happy and proud. He stares a back in the mirror and now wants to get mad at the smudged eyeliner. He can’t believe he let himself think this time it was good enough. That what he does on that stage is what the people want, what makes them buy those tickets. 

He can barely hear what’s happening around him as he stares in his own eyes through the mirror, the usual self-deprecating looks he gives himself coming back. He doesn’t want to cry; he really doesn’t. He’s mad, at himself, for being who he is. For being a  _ ponce _ . That’s what he is; that’s what he’s always been. 

There’s a laugh that erupts from behind him, he doesn’t bother trying to find out what’s happening, he just wants to look back in the mirror, and then look at himself, with everything he’s ever hated about himself, fixed. He wants everything fixed, everything too much removed. He just wants to be as perfect as everyone else seems to be. 

“Look, we still deserve to go out and have some fun!” Roger is saying loudly. Roger is hard to ignore, especially when he raises his voice. He doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but Freddie cringes back automatically, then tries to turn the movement into an exaggerated reach for his towel. He almost can’t bear to hear what Roger has to say next, because what if it’s about him, about how they could do so much better if only—

But Roger only says, “The press have always been assholes to us. I still want a drink!”

“Hear, hear,” Deaky says dryly. By his tone, Roger has been rambling on about this for some time.

“That’s all right by me,” Brian pipes up. He’s settled his beloved guitar in her case, lovingly locked her away, safe as could be. He’s also changed clothes, which is much more than Freddie has yet managed. “What about you, Fred? You up for a pint?” he asks, and smiles.

Freddie turns away. That smile is dangerous for the longing it sparks inside him, and he  _ can’t _ think about that right now. “Of course, darling, you know me!” he says, forcing cheer into his voice. If the others don’t suspect anything, he doesn’t want to plant the seed of doubt in their minds--or water the seed that’s already there, that must be there, after the performance he gave tonight.

Irritably, he shakes the thoughts away.  _ Not now, not now _ . He focuses very precisely on wiping off his stage makeup—smudged and too gaudy—then changing into his everyday clothes—still too flouncy, probably, even if they aren’t made of satin—and brushing out his hair—which is, as always, impossible and unruly.

He slams the hairbrush down with unnecessary force. “Come  _ on _ , darlings, I thought we were getting a drink?” he calls to the room at large.

“Just waiting on you, Freddie!” Roger calls back, to laughter from most people crammed into the tiny space.

He wants to go home. The thought of being in a pub right now doesn’t seem appealing. People looking at him, sneering at him. Won’t it bother the boys? They just want a fun night, not a night with him being an emotional wreck. They can have fun without him, maybe they’ll have more fun without him, not having to worry if he’s gonna jump on them at any moment. Not having to hear him talk stupidly and look idiotic. But they’ll notice something’s wrong, at least Brian will. And he doesn’t want to talk about how much of a burden he feels like. 

But still, he puts on a smile, bows graciously, and lets the laughter cover up the moment when he has to figure out what to say. He  _ does _ have to go, he knows that, but now Roger’s made a joke and he has to respond to  _ that too _ .

“Being this perfect takes work, dear,” he says as he straightens, stomach clenching horribly at the lie. “And now  _ you’re _ the one holding us up!”

The laughter, mercifully, turns on Roger then, who accepts the ribbing with good grace. But that’s Roger—nothing ever seems to get to him.

Freddie wishes with all his heart that he could be the same way.

They’ve played this venue before, so they end up at a pub nearby that they’re all familiar with. At least it isn’t somewhere brand new, at least there isn’t that anxiety on top of everything else, but the place is small. In a good mood, Freddie would call it  _ homey _ . Like this, he thinks it’s cramped—most especially when he’s given the task of buying the first round and comes back to their booth to find that Roger and Deaky have their heads together over Roger’s phone on one side, leaving Freddie to sit next to Brian on the other. And the booths, even for Freddie in a good mood, are  _ small _ .

He sets the pints down, smiling as best he can over the anxious pounding of his heart, all the while keeping his lips nervously pinched closed. Brian’s watching the other two, brow furrowed in that way he has when he’s really thinking, his curls even more flyaway than usual after two hours on stage. He’s  _ beautiful _ ; he’s always been beautiful.

“What are you looking at, Rog?” Freddie asks, seeking to distract himself. He selects one of the glasses and slides in next to Brian, given no choice but to press himself right up against him.

“Our Twitter feed,” Roger replies, and now he  _ is _ angry. “Bunch of fucking ungrateful  _ assholes _ .”

“Don’t take it so personally, Rog,” Deaky says. He seizes a free pint, fast, and gulps down a sizeable amount.

“I’m not! I’m just fucking pissed that they  _ paid _ to come to our concert—our  _ awesome _ concert, might I add!—and they’re only now complaining about it!”

John’s mumbling something about how they already have the money for the night, it hardly matters anymore what these people say, but Freddie, his heart sinking into his toes, can’t stop himself from pulling his own phone out of his pocket. He opens up the Twitter app, uselessly trying to brace himself, and it’s like a punch to the face when he doesn’t even have to navigate to the @QueenOfficial page to see what these “assholes” are saying.

Because right there, on his own account, are a string of very clear comments, addressed just to him.

_ lmao just saw @FreddieMercury in concert, who does this prat think he is?? _

_ tbf I didn’t see tonite’s @QueenOfficial gig but @FreddieMercury belongs in a balet studio not in a rock band, jarring to say the least _

_ @FreddieMercury get your teeth fixed, mate! _

There are others—some are even complimentary, though how anyone could see  _ anything _ good in Freddie or his work he doesn’t understand—but he’s stuck sitting here, staring down at the bright screen in his palm, blinking back tears. No, he  _ can’t _ cry, not here.

“Freddie?” Brian’s voice, beside him.

Freddie waves a dismissive hand, swallowing hard, fighting to control himself. “Oh, you know, the perils of stardom, dear.”

“They  _ have _ been saying some dreadful things,” Brian says, subdued. He swivels his own phone on the table in front of him.

“They’re just uncultured assholes, Brian. It’s not like they even know what they’re talking about,” Freddie says with a small shrug and a smirk on his face that is so painful to do. 

He swallows hard to make sure his voice doesn’t sound choked up, because he knows the tears are close and he absolutely doesn’t want them to get out, not in front of the others. They can’t know that he’s so weak, especially Brian. What will he think of him then? He’s already ruining everything good of the band, he has to at least look like he doesn’t care about it. Like he doesn’t think maybe they should have stayed with Tim instead, that maybe  _ they _ wish they stayed with Tim. Wasn’t everything working out so much better before he started changing everything?

There were no shows cut off by someone yelling homophobic slurs before. There were no people coming to their show just to tell others how bad it is afterwards, how much of a faggot the singer is. He’s scared that maybe the boys wish he’d just leave the band. He’s scared that they hate him for making the public hate them. Maybe, he thinks wildly, he should stop running around like a kid in every show. Maybe then they won’t want him gone. 

He goes to the @QueenOfficial page a last time before closing his phone, more insults tweeted every few minutes. He put his phone on the table beside Brian’s, praying he can’t notice how much it’s absolutely killing him how much people hate him. Praying that he doesn’t also notice the shivers on Freddie’s whole body when their arms accidentally brush against each other. If the guitarist ever finds out about this thing Freddie feels for him, they definitely won’t want him anymore. He can’t imagine Brian feeling a fraction of what Freddie feels for him. Who would love someone like him?

Nobody, and he knows it. Nobody can love someone like him. He’s the type of person that doesn’t live to see the day when someone finally loves him. He’s the type of person that stays alone all their life while they watch others build families and get married. It’s better if it stays like that, secretly loving his best friend while he watches him eventually finding someone else, finding someone better than him, which isn’t really hard. 

“Right,” Brian says, cheerfully enough that whatever he’s read must not have affected him too much. “You’re right, Fred, of course.” He smiles and takes a pint for himself. “Oi, Rog, you’re falling behind,” he says, and Freddie can feel him kick Roger under the table.

Roger looks up from his phone. “Huh? Oh, drinks are here!” he exclaims. He immediately turns his phone off, cruel tweets forgotten with an ease that Freddie envies, and holds up his glass. “Cheers, mates! We rocked ‘em deaf and blind and I say that’s worth celebrating!”

Freddie makes himself laugh and hopes that, under the sound of glasses clinking and the general hubbub of the pub, it sounds genuine. “Cheers, darlings! To a fabulous night!”

If only, he reflects, sitting back to drink, it could have  _ stayed _ as fabulous as it started.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a sleepover and talk about their uni days. Freddie remembers a pre-John bassist.

A couple of hours pass, and the boys relocate from the pub to their apartment, waving goodbye to any last roadies at the door. They’re still sharing a place—they aren’t making enough money to rent their own flats, and after Freddie’s performance tonight, he’s starting to wonder if they’ll  _ ever _ reach that point—but despite its leaky roof and shitty bathroom it does have four (tiny) bedrooms.

Still, on their way back, hands jammed into coat pockets to ward off the night chill, Brian has a suggestion.

“Why don’t we all sleep in the living room, like we used to back in uni?” he asks, almost shyly, his head ducked in an attempt to hide his face behind his curls. He’s so tall that it doesn’t really work—they can all see how much he really wants this. “Celebrate a great concert, you know?”

“Ooh,  _ great _ idea!” Roger says loudly. He sways into Freddie, flinging an arm across his shoulders. “I claim the couch, though, all right? My back fucking hurts from drumming so hard, I deserve it!”

“You’ll have a right fight on your hands there, Rog,” Deaky points out mildly. “Freddie isn’t going to want to sleep on the floor.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Roger, you can have it,” Freddie says hastily. He hates it that Deaky might think he’s delicate, too much of a fragile flower to sleep on the floor with the rest of the boys—too much of a girl. It’s like (and his heart hurts at the thought, it’s racing so hard)—it’s like Deaky  _ knows _ , about him, but he  _ can’t _ , because Freddie’s tried so hard to hide for so many years now—

He smiles at Roger’s dubious expression, fighting hard to push such thoughts aside. “Really, darling, I don’t mind!”

“Huh,” Roger says, and he doesn’t exactly sound convinced. “Well, we can play rock-paper-scissors for it when we get back. Oh! Do we have any alcohol at home? We can do shots!”

“Roger!” Brian says, dismayed. “You’re already drunk!”

Roger protests that he isn’t; Brian says that he is too; and the argument only ends when they reach their front door, and Roger discovers that they do, in fact, have a nearly-full bottle of vodka under the sink. He’s so distracted filling up shot glasses for the four of them and attempting to cajole them into drinking with him that Freddie ends up having to collect his blankets and pillow from his room for him.

Pointedly, Freddie lays his own pillow on the floor, then tries to hide his flinch when Brian sets up right next to him, smiling and cheerful and just  _ happy _ for it to be the four of them, presumably. Or maybe just for it to be himself, Roger, and Deaky—Freddie could be a horrid burden. He probably  _ is _ a burden.

Brian’s not acting like he’s a burden, though. In fact, when Freddie sits down, he drops down right next to him, so their shoulders and knees are touching, and it would be horrible except it’s so  _ nice _ . Brian is so warm, and so tall, and Freddie can imagine leaning sideways to put his head on his shoulder. He’s the perfect height for it.

He  _ can’t _ , though, and he knows he shouldn’t entertain these thoughts—they’ll only hurt more, later, when he remembers why he can’t have this. All the reasons why Brian doesn’t want him, will never want him back. It’s always lovely to imagine what it would feel like to have one of Brian’s long arms around his shoulders, holding him to his side, or how nice it would be to hold Brian’s clever hands in his own, because his fingers are always cold and Freddie could warm them for him—

But it will never happen. What’s the point of hurting himself like this when there’s never going to be a happy ending?

So he lets Brian sit next to him, and he can’t stop his mind from running wild entirely, but he tries not to indulge too much.

It takes a few minutes before Roger is finally sat with the three of them, after probably secretly drinking a bit in secret. The lights barely illuminate anything because of how bad the light bulbs are, but it just adds to the ambiance that they’re trying to create. Being the four of them sitting in the living room together feels so much better than spending the night separately in their own rooms, watching the show in their heads over and over again. Feeling proud for some, feeling ashamed for others. 

Roger puts the shot glasses on the ugly table with a wide grin on his face. He loves doing shots, especially since he’s the best at it. He sits back on the couch, legs crossed and a very drunken look on his face. 

“So, for anyone who isn’t gonna drink, which I warn you guys, if you don’t I’m gonna be very offended, you’re gonna have to tell us about a uni moment. Why uni? No idea, tonight just makes me remember the old days,” Roger explains, his voice only slightly wobbly as the previous alcohol starts to kick in. 

With sighs that truthfully don’t show any real annoyance, the other three take the shots in front of them, all of them grimacing at the taste and the burn in their throats. They all look at Roger with identical, almost evil smiles. They drank, and he’s the one who started this. 

“We all drank, and you created this shitty game, so Roger, tell us about a uni memory,” John says, wiggling his eyebrows funnily, a small laugh at the tip of his lips. 

It doesn’t take long before the drummer’s eyes light up, showing he clearly has found something. 

“Bread sauce.” He laughs. 

Freddie joins in, laughing so much louder than he intended, but he doesn’t care about it enough to stop. John and Brian look at each other with slight confusion before starting to laugh too, just at how much their bandmates are laughing, which is pretty ridiculous. It takes a few minutes for everyone to calm down, leaving Roger to explain. 

“We  _ only _ had bread sauce to eat at Christmas. And I must point out that it’s the most awful thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. And we only had one can of it for two. We didn’t even have alcohol to wash out the taste,” he says, making a disgusted face. “But it was still one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had,” he continues, looking at Freddie intensely. 

(Roger can remember the laughs they had that night, only the two of them in their terrible flat. He remembers receiving Freddie’s gift, a painting of him, and how blessed he felt to have him as a friend. He remembers having to hold the happy tears in as he looked at his best friend. He can’t blame any of it on the alcohol they didn’t drink, and moreover, he’s never wanted to.)

A nostalgic smile forms on Freddie’s face. He doesn’t get why it was such a great Christmas for Roger. It must be one of the best Christmases he ever had too, which he didn’t get to have a lot, but he can’t imagine Roger being so happy to spend Christmas with him only. He’s not anything special; it would have probably been a better Christmas if Roger had spent it with Brian, someone who deserves to be looked at like they’re so important. 

“Yeah, it really was,” Freddie says quietly, still looking in Roger’s eyes, before snapping out of his thoughts and putting on an excited smile, remembering another memory. “ _ I _ remember,” he says, pointing at Roger, “when you sold  _ my _ jacket at the stall!”

Roger’s eyes open comically wide, and Brian laughs, possibly at both of them, though Freddie can’t care about that right now. He’s too caught up in the memory.

“You tried to talk your way out of it, saying we weren’t going to make rent,” he goes on, grinning, “when I knew full well that was rubbish! If you’d been a better salesman, you wouldn’t have had to sell my clothes.”

“Just think of it as a compliment, Freddie,” Roger protests—one of the excuses he’d tried to use at the time. “Your jacket was so fabulous it would have got us through another month of rent—until you went and bought it back!”

“It was  _ my _ jacket!” Freddie cries, laughing. “I can’t  _ believe _ you sold it, you idiot!” He flings his arms out to the sides, looking over to Brian. “Can you imagine? Would you sell one of my jackets, Brian?”

“No,” Brian says seriously, though his lip is twitching as he fights back a smile of his own. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Exactly! We could have done without rent, but I couldn’t do without my jacket.” Freddie tosses his hair, pleased with this logical deduction, and just happens to catch a glimpse of John, sitting quietly to one side, watching Freddie with hard, critical eyes.

(John’s thinking of a girl who goes to a teacher’s school nearby, a girl he hasn’t had the nerve to tell his bandmates he’s seeing yet. He wonders if he should invite her to the next concert, if it’s too soon—except it doesn’t feel like it’s too soon. Nothing feels like it’s too soon with Ronnie.)

The look John is giving him makes Freddie’s heart squeeze so terribly. He’s hoped, so hard, that John wouldn’t look at him like that too. He feels uneasy, he stops talking; he  _ won’t _ be able to talk because of how tight his throat is. He sits back down on his knees, realizing only as he does that he’s been up on them, too giddy to sit still. 

He wipes the smile off his face, carefully hiding his teeth in his mouth self-consciously. He puts his hands between his legs, wishing to just stop looking so stupid with his arms flapping around like crazy. It makes people disgusted, it makes everyone they’ve ever had leave. He needs to stop looking like such an idiot if he doesn’t want the boys to leave too. Just like Barry did. 

Unwillingly, he remembers the day Barry left—that last concert, the one that, just like tonight’s, he’d thought had gone so well. He was delayed just off stage, talking with Brian, while the other two wandered back to their tiny dressing room, and he remembers looking up at Brian, his hair haloed in light, and thinking, with an absurd surge of hope, that maybe they could  _ be _ something, someday. The two of them, not just Queen.

It all seems so silly, now. The ridiculous dreams of a delusional boy.

And then Brian had—he doesn’t remember what delayed Brian, actually, just that he went back to the dressing room to join Roger and Barry on his own, and, even over the noise of the concert continuing behind him, heard raised voices through the door.

At first, he couldn’t work out what they were saying. He wishes, now, that he’d walked away, or walked in, or done  _ anything _ other than what he did, which was stop just outside the door to eavesdrop, curious about what could have Roger nearly shouting like that after such a good night.

But the first words he picked out weren’t Roger’s.

“Listen, you know it’s nothing to do with you!”

They were Barry’s.

“It  _ feels _ like it’s a little to do with me!” Roger. He still sounded—angry, almost.

“Well, it’s not. You’ve got potential, you  _ know _ that—hell, you’ve just got proof of that tonight! But I’m not hanging around a band that isn’t going anywhere, Rog, I have better things to do with my time.”

Freddie’s blood ran cold. Barry was  _ leaving? _ After they lost Mike—how would they ever find another bassist, it had been so difficult finding a replacement for Tim and then Mike in the first place—

Holding his breath, like that would do any good in such a loud environment, he pressed his ear to the door to hear better.

“Look, it’s that singer of yours—Freddie. He’s too much, Roger, surely you’ve realized it by now? All the  _ dears _ and  _ darlings _ , fixing up his hair, flapping around on stage—he’s distracting from the music, mate, and he’s not even that great of a singer. He’s the weak link here, you have to face up to it. Drop him and you might make something of yourselves yet.”

Roger said something in reply, but Freddie honestly didn’t hear it over the rushing in his own ears.

Freddie wanted to scream. He found himself putting a hand over his mouth, his breathing getting harder and harder to control. Queen was what he had left. What would he do if they didn’t want him here with them anymore? He’d have no job, no credibility with his parents. They’d never want him in their house if he couldn’t pay the bills anymore. 

He thought maybe he was a good enough singer, that it could compensate for all the stupid things he did. But he didn’t even have  _ that _ . Well, Roger did use to say he sang like a strangled sheep—he probably wasn’t joking. 

He didn’t pull his ear away, because no matter how much it hurt, he needed to know—needed to know what was wrong with him, what made everyone walk away. Roger and Brian would hate him, hell, Roger probably already did, but Brian would too when he learned it was Freddie’s fault they’re failing. Freddie’s fault that Brian’s dreams would never come true. They would both want him gone. 

He started listening again just in time to hear one last, horrible, enlightening statement from Barry: “You know, Rog, you really should take Genesis up on their offer. You’ll go places with them—I honestly can’t see Queen getting anywhere and it would be a shame if you ended up being a dentist after all.”

Blinded by his own tears, Freddie turned away from the door and fled down the hallway. He remembers hiding out in a closet (ironic, that) until he had himself under control, until he could come back to the dressing room, all smiles, and accept Barry’s resignation with grace.

To this day, he doesn’t know why Roger didn’t get the job with Genesis. He’s always been too afraid to ask, too afraid that Roger, too, will look at him the way Barry used to, the way he only learned to recognize after the fact.

It’s the way John’s looking at him now. He’s terrified that if he looks over, Roger and Brian (oh god,  _ Brian _ ) will wear the same expression—that they look at him like this all the time when he’s not paying attention.

Maybe they’ve just been looking for an excuse to get rid of him all along.

He gets an idea that scares him (a lot), but that he knows is the best decision. Maybe, if he tells them that he’s gay, that what happened with any girl was just a cover up so they couldn’t find out, they’ll leave him. Maybe him being gay is a good enough excuse for them to leave him.

“Guys.” He realizes only after the fact that he’s cut Roger off as he was talking about something he didn’t hear because of the loudness of his previous thoughts. “I’ve got something important to tell you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Barry Mitchell thing is pretty much true, unfortunately. We've read interviews he's done for books, and you can also listen to him talk about Freddie [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihDX6YKamvk&feature=youtu.be). We are not the biggest fans of Mr. Mitchell.
> 
> On the other hand, we are huge fans of you guys! We hope that you enjoy this chapter and all the ones to come!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie comes out to the boys. They aren't exactly surprised, but he is. Specifically, he's surprised that they aren't.

For a moment, Freddie’s surrounded only by three silent, blinking faces and his own pounding heart.

“Important?” Roger echoes, swaying forward, a strange expression on like he’s not sure whether he should be excited for or worried about Freddie. “What’s up, mate?”

“I—” Freddie’s fingers tangle together in his lap. He feels like he’s actually choking on his own nervousness; he’s going to throw up rather than get the words out. “I—I’m—I have to tell you,” he stammers, and then forces it out, fast, like it can’t hurt him if he doesn’t linger on it: “I’m gay.”

Roger, John, and Brian ( _ Brian _ ) just stare at him for what feels like a small eternity. They’ll hate him; this is the moment, this is it, this is when they tell him to leave, that Queen is better off without him. That he’d better pack up his things and move out. That maybe they shouldn’t be friends anymore, either.

“Wait,” John says slowly, “I thought—didn’t you already tell us that?”

Freddie swears his heart actually stops. “I—what? No?”

“But we already—Freddie, mate, we already  _ know _ that,” Roger adds, and he’s smiling, so gently. He reaches over, very drunkenly, but still manages to clasp Freddie’s forearm in one warm hand.

“You already  _ know? _ ” Freddie repeats. There’s nothing inside him but a vast, anxious bubble, rapidly expanding. He’s going to explode. He’s going to shrink down into nothing. He might actually have a heart attack.

He’s a bit confused—no, very confused. They already  _ know? _ How did they even find out? Why are they still here then? There are so many questions, he doesn’t know how they could ever be answered. Deep down, even if he’s trying to mess everything up so they finally leave him and reach their true potential without him holding them back, he hopes that repressed feelings about his sexuality won’t show up. That after a few minutes, someone’s smile won’t turn into a sour face and envelop him into a cold blanket of misery. 

And Brian still hasn’t spoken. He’s just  _ sitting _ there.

_ Please, Bri, _ he wants to beg. He wants to beg him to say something, to not just stare at him like that, even if it doesn’t look as if he’s mad, or disgusted. Hopefully, later tonight or maybe tomorrow, Brian won’t go talk to John or Roger just to tell them how he really feels. Hopefully, he won’t say things about him that Freddie wouldn’t ever be able to get over. Hopefully, he’s not thinking how much he wants Freddie gone while Roger talks. 

“Are you bringing this up because you have a boyfriend?” Roger asks eagerly. He’s a terrible gossip, he loves hearing all about his friends’ love lives, Freddie  _ knows _ this—but surely Roger doesn’t really mean it? “Or  _ want _ to have a boyfriend? Do you have your eye on someone? Who is he? Do I know him?”

_ Yes, _ Freddie thinks, and only manages to avoid looking over at Brian through sheer willpower. Also, he doesn’t really want to see the expression on Brian’s face right now, doesn’t want to see what Brian thinks of the idea of him having  _ a boyfriend _ . Which he doesn’t. Because the only man he wants is  _ Brian _ .

“You have to introduce us,” Roger continues, just as upbeat, just as seemingly excited as he is every time one of the others talks about a girl—just as thrilled as he’s been every time Freddie, for the sake of the illusion, talked about a girlfriend of his own. Then, suddenly, he frowns, and Freddie’s entire chest clenches.

This is it. This is the moment when Roger realizes what they’ve been talking about, what this means, and tells Freddie to get out—of the apartment, the band, his life.

“I will  _ murder _ him if he breaks your heart!” he exclaims, so loudly that Freddie startles. “He can’t get away with hurting my best friend—I’ll kneecap him!”

“Get in line, Rog,” John says quietly.

Freddie stares at the two of them in blank amazement. They’re completely serious, he can tell, he’s known them long enough. They want to meet his non-existent boyfriend to give him the shovel talk. It’s—this is—

He never imagined this.

Involuntarily, his eyes flicker to Brian, sitting silently next to him, and any hope that’s started to bloom, however cautiously, is immediately snuffed out, because Brian’s brow is serious and crumpled, his eyes too focused. He’s not saying anything to agree with Roger and John. He’s not disagreeing, either, but—

His silence is damning.

_ Brian. _

(No, it’s not that Brian is shocked, or in any way disgusted. Of course he isn’t. It’s not like this is something new and unexpected. He just can’t believe how brave Freddie is—saying it out loud, admitting it to himself. He’s amazed by how strong he is, how he managed to go through everything he’s gone through because of his sexuality—because of where he comes from. But he still manages to open up, not look even an  _ ounce _ ashamed of it, at least from what Brian can see. 

He wants to be this courageous. He wants to be able to say those words out loud—to find even harder words to say to Freddie. He wants him to know how loved he is. He probably knows it, already sees how much the world adores him. But Brian wants his love to be even more important than others. He wants Freddie to look at  _ him _ and know just how much he means to him, how needed he is. 

But he’s not courageous, not at all, and thinking about Freddie rejecting him makes him even less brave. He knows Freddie wouldn’t laugh at him; he wouldn’t ever mock him for it. But there’s only one answer he wants and if it’s not the one he’s sure is gonna be said, there’s no use in confessing.

He doesn’t realize that he looks almost upset when he thinks this hard.)

The frown on Brian’s face doesn’t leave and it makes Freddie’s eyes skitter away, stop looking at him entirely. He can’t handle this type of stare, this  _ look _ . Brian looks—disappointed, as if he’s a dad, discovering his son smoking in secret. Freddie tries to tell himself he’s imagining it, he’s paranoid, he has to be! But no, there still are hard eyes tearing their way into his soul, leaving it broken and desperate for a bit of love. 

He’s still a child, stuck in a man’s body, desperately searching for someone to give him the love he’s always hoped to have. A love that his parents didn’t give him when he needed it the most. A love that he knows he doesn’t deserve, but still wants so bad. He just has to face up to the fact that Brian won’t be the one to give him either, apparently. 

_ Please,  _ he begs silently, one last time.  _ Please love me. _

But he can still see Brian staring at him from the corner of his eye. He’ll definitely talk about this with Roger, say things about him when his back is turned. Wait for the best time to convince the other boys to leave him, wait until he’s not listening, until he’s confident everything’s fine again. 

He realizes, after a moment, that Roger and John are staring at him expectantly, and he scrambles for the last part of their conversation that he can remember. The last thing he remembers before his heart broke. “No,” he says finally. “I’m not dating anyone right now.”

“Oh,” Roger says, and he’s almost disappointed. But then he seems to rally. “You know you can talk about boys with me, right? I can appreciate a hot dude!”

“Really, Roger?” John asks, eyebrows raised sky-high.

“Oh, come on, Deaky, like you’ve never looked twice!” Roger says, flapping a hand. “Seriously, Freddie,” he adds earnestly, grabbing Freddie’s hands, “I’m happy for you. You don’t have to hide with us, you know? You’re our mate.”

“Seconded,” John says.

“Yeah,” Brian adds, belatedly. Of course, Brian’s the one who’s actually uncomfortable with this, so Freddie’s not surprised that this is the first time he’s spoken, or that he sounds so unconvincing. “You’re very brave, Freddie,” he says, and he  _ seems _ honest, which only hurts more. “You know we’d never judge you for this, right?” Cautiously, more slowly than he would have done before, Brian puts an arm around his shoulders, hugging him close.

Freddie forces a smile. He hopes Brian just—gets it over with. As soon as possible. He can’t bear this  _ pretending. _ “I do know that, darlings.”

“Do you know what this calls for?” Roger says triumphantly. “More drinks!”

A chorus of groans greet his words, and at least in this, none of them are lying. Still, Roger seems so happy, and Freddie can’t refuse him; neither, in the long run, can Deaky or Brian. The bottle of vodka suffers the consequences.

After several more shots, Freddie sets his glass down and tips his head back to catch his breath. He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second before he opens them again. Everything feels different and weird, but still the same. The lightbulbs seem to be even worse, or maybe some of them have gone out; it’s even darker in the room than it was when they started. Roger and John have fallen asleep so quickly, but Brian is still awake, somewhat still looking at him, but with even darker eyes. 

Freddie wants to fall asleep too, just to ignore it—he doesn’t want to know what Brian thinks of all this. But before he can even lay down on the floor, covered with his soft blankets and pillows, Brian opens his mouth, so close to letting a few words out. A few words that can’t be taken back. 

“You know—it wasn’t enough making our bassists leave, now this? You can’t seem to stop making a fool out of yourself, can’t you?” he says, no regret showing in his face—just a smirk that makes Freddie feel sick. 

Everything makes him feel sick. 

Those only two sentences hit him like a ton of bricks. He would have preferred to be hit than that. He wants everyone to stop lying to him, to tell him what they truly think of him. Roger and John were probably lying too. 

He reaches out to touch lightly Brian’s arm, but he pulls his arm away, with a face showing nothing else but disdain. He’s not gonna make it through all this, how could he ever make it through this much pain? 

“Don’t worry, they’ll want you gone too soon enough,” Brian whispers while casting a glance at the two sleeping forms. It’s cruel, saying everything that could ever make him scared and insecure. Brian knows what hurts him the most. He’s seen him hurt enough to know. 

“But, Brian—” he says, voice cracking, unable to help himself.

Brian just shushes him, and he’s unbearably pitying. “Really, Freddie, what else did you expect? Maybe you should just pack up now and go, before they wake up. Or do you want them to tell you to leave too?”

Freddie shakes his head. He’s in tears. He can feel them on his cheeks.

“Crying again?” Brian says disdainfully. “Really, Freddie?” Then his voice changes, suddenly, becoming soft and coaxing: “Freddie? Freddie, can you hear me?”

And he’s awake, all at once, blinking up at the ceiling, a terrible crick in his neck because he’s fallen asleep without using his pillow.  _ Asleep _ —he was asleep. It was a dream. An awful dream of what faces him when his friends realize what they  _ really _ feel about him.

Brian leans over him, seemingly concerned, hair picked out in the dim light from the kitchen. The other two really are asleep, Freddie can see that when he turns his head, Roger snoring on the couch and John a lump in his blankets, and it’s so like his nightmare that he feels momentarily sick.

“Are you awake now?” Brian whispers. “You looked horrible. Do you feel alright?”

“Oh. I—” Freddie presses a trembling hand to his forehead. He’s sticky with sweat. He really must look terrible, if Brian noticed in the dark. Just one more reason why the boys will throw him out—silly Freddie, sweating and nearly in tears after a nightmare. He has to pretend to be okay. He forces a smile and hopes that, in the darkness, it looks real. “It was just a dream, darling. I’m fine.”

Brian hesitates. “Really? Are you—”

“I’m  _ sure _ , Brian.” He can’t bear to talk to Brian, not in the dark like this, just the two of them. It’s too much like the dream that still feels too real. He’s terrified Brian will open his mouth and tell him he hates him. He can’t  _ bear _ it. “Really,” he says, “I just want to go back to sleep, dear.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, and then Brian smiles at him. He’s terrible at pretending and it’s slightly forced. “Okay. Good night, then, Freddie.”

“... ‘Night, Brian.”  _ You’ll be saying goodbye soon enough. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your continued support! We hope you enjoyed.
> 
> As you can see, we are having so much fun writing this story that the chapters are just flying out! Presumably you will not have to wait very long for the next one, so stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie comes out on social media. He's braced for the worst, but it's somehow even more horrible than he's prepared for.

Freddie’s tired of it.

The waiting.

It’s been twenty-four whole hours, and none of his bandmates have come out (hilarious, that, Freddie,  _ well done _ ) to say that they’ve realized what a fuckup he actually is and they’d really be better off without an actual queen in Queen, thanks awfully…

He can’t stand waiting for that moment to finally come. He hasn’t slept since the nightmare, certain that at any moment one of the others will knock on his door to tell him to get out, and every time Roger or John or Brian speaks to him, just casually, he can’t help but tense, certain that this is the  _ moment _ . And it hasn’t been.  _ Yet _ .

He can’t take any more of this. It’s time, he’s realized, after several hours staring blankly at the wall, to force the issue, to  _ make _ the other three tell him what they really feel. Just  _ get it over with _ .

Resolute, he pulls out his phone. He hates this part—he always hates photos of himself—but he still does his best, holding his phone at just the right angle, tilting his head in just the right way, pulling his lips over his teeth while still managing to smile. Then he scrutinizes the several pictures he’s managed to take and deletes all but one. There—that should do. It’ll look even better with a black and white filter, his favorite because it hides so many imperfections, though even that’s not enough to make him look good.

_ Important announcement for you darlings, _ he types in the caption. His thumbs hesitate over the digital keyboard on his phone, and Freddie bites his lip, forging onward before he can stop himself.  _ I know you’re all dying to learn more things about the fabulous me, so here’s some insider information: I’m gay as a daffodil, dears! Only men need apply. Love and kisses, Freddie. _

And, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses post.

There. It’s too late now. He can’t take anything back, and the boys will kick him out of the band as soon as they realize what Freddie’s done.

Almost immediately, the comments start flooding in:

_ lol everyone already knew that _

_ Okay, “dear”, thanks for telling us the obvious ;D _

_ transparent closet much???? ur band is called queen! _

_ Use me as a dislike button _

_ Like the dears and darlings didn’t give it away, lol does he think we’re stupid? _

_ Go rock a gay club, Amadeus! Your music sucks!! _

_ I think you should walk right back in that closet please _

_ Ugh, unfollowed, this is just ridiculous. Attention-seeking slut. _

_ If a daffodil is gay, what does that make the other flowers?? _

(What Freddie doesn’t see—or at least doesn’t notice through his tears—are comments like this:

_ Awww you go Freddie! Represent! I’m so proud of you bby ♥ _

_ I knew it! Welcome to the club, man, we’re so proud to have you! _

_ Wow, he’s so brave, I can’t believe that a pop star can come out these days like this. I’m in awe!! _

_ Cute photo and even cuter caption! Love you, Freddie! _

And he especially doesn’t notice, because he doesn’t click on any of the replies to any of the comments, the ones like this:

_ Fuck off. How would you like it if someone said something like that to you? Or don’t you even have feelings? -Bri _

_ I’m reporting you. There are enough homophobes in the world without giving them a voice on this platform. -Bri _

All he sees are the terrible words in front of his eyes.)

He can barely see anything as the tears still blur his vision. His stomach clenches at the thought of Brian walking in his bedroom, seeing him being so fucking pathetic. Brian will probably never want to look at him again—not that he does anyway, probably. 

When he looks over to his profile, he can see the number of followers falling every time he refreshes the page. His phone rings with notifications continuously—he doesn’t have the courage to close them. Or maybe he’s just trying to sabotage himself; the more he reads it, the more he believes it. And the more he believes it, the more he wants to read every single comment. Or at least each hateful one. 

He tries so hard to stop the tears from falling, but the more he tries, the more they fall. He doesn’t know where he’ll go when the boys will tell him to leave. He doesn’t know where he’ll live, what he’ll call home. What’s home anyway? Does he have a home? Home is supposed to be where you belong, and he doesn’t belong anywhere. Is  _ that _ what he’ll tell his parents? His father?

He wipes his tears away when he feels too tired to cry anymore. They have a show tonight, he can’t look a mess, at least not more than he usually does. To his horror, he hears steps from the hallway, near his room, and he waves his hands frantically at his eyes to make the redness of them go down. Just in case the person decides to come see him. Maybe it’s one of them coming to tell him that he needs to leave. It wouldn’t really be surprising. 

Sure enough, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Freddie calls, fighting to keep his voice steady. His heart is beating so fast.

The door opens and it’s Brian. ( _ Brian.)  _ It can’t really be any worse. It’ll hurt more since it’s him, it’ll definitely break him more than if it was John or Roger telling him. He doesn’t know how he’ll hide how he feels until Brian is finally out of the bedroom.

“Hey, Freddie,” Brian says, and he’s smiling a little, but, like Freddie expected, it’s subdued, wrong. At least Brian feels bad about what he’s come to say. At least there’s that. “Are—” He hesitates, then just asks, “You ready for the concert tonight?”

Oh, Freddie wishes he wouldn’t draw it out, but he does his best to smile. “Of course, darling!” he says, aiming for cheerful, brash, bold—everything he should be. “I’m always ready, you know me.”

“Right.” Brian edges over until he can sit on Freddie’s bed next to him. It’s so close to what Freddie wants, and yet so far, and it’s all he can do not to lean away from Brian—like distance will help the pain in his heart. “I was on Instagram earlier,” he says, looking down at his long, elegant hands, and Freddie’s stomach seizes up into his chest.

“Oh,” he says, uselessly.

“People can be assholes, Freddie,” Brian says earnestly, and he looks up at Freddie at last. Freddie can’t quite decipher the expression in his clever eyes. “You don’t—you’re okay, right?”

Whatever Brian has to say, Freddie can’t let him believe that he’s so easily affected by mere text posts on the internet. “Of course,” he scoffs, tossing his hair so he can cover his face momentarily. He hopes his reddened eyes aren’t giving him away. “Like you said, they’re just idiots on the internet, Bri. Who would be bothered by what they’re saying?” His heart hurts.  _ Who indeed? _ Only Freddie. Always Freddie.

Brian glances away again, back down to his hands. “Oh,” he says. “You’re right, of course.” He laughs, but it sounds false. “Well. I just wanted—but if you’re okay, then it doesn’t matter.” He rubs one slim wrist with equally slim fingers, and Freddie can’t help but watch him do it. Who knows how much longer he’ll have Brian in his life? Only another few minutes, at this rate, surely. “Have you decided what you’re going to wear yet?” Brian says, unexpectedly, and he’s still  _ drawing it out _ .

“For the concert?”

Brian nods. “We could—” He hesitates. He’s been doing that a lot since Freddie came out. “We could wear the Zandra tunics, if you want? Match, you know?”

Why Brian would want to match with  _ him _ , Freddie can’t imagine. “I—suppose,” he says haltingly.

“We don’t have to,” Brian says hastily.

“No, no, it’s fine, darling. They’re wonderful stage clothes. Such  _ presence _ .” He does love the tunics—he’ll miss his when he’s gone. “If you want to wear them, then let’s do it, darling,” he says, because he can’t really say no to anything Brian wants. Not truly.

Brian’s face lights up, sweetly and genuinely. “I’ll go get them,” he says eagerly. “Where did you leave them? With the rest of the clean laundry?”

“They should be there, dear,” Freddie answers distractedly. The next moment, Brian walks out of the bedroom with his quick, long-legged stride, no doubt to go find the costumes. Without even realising what he’s doing, Freddie removes his pants to replace them with the ones he’ll wear on stage. He just can’t imagine what it’ll look like without having them on. He forgets to even close the door and regrets it when he hears a slight gasp from behind him. 

_ Great. _

Brian is there and has  _ just _ seen his ass. “Sorry,” he says quietly, pale cheeks flushed, and Freddie curses himself for making this situation so much more awkward.

He finishes putting his pants on before telling Brian to come back in shyly. This time, he remembers to shut the door, closing them off from the rest of the flat.

They barely cross each other’s gaze as the silence lingers. Each one puts his costume on carefully—it’s something so expensive that they’re scared to even put a crease in the delicate fabric. It’s the costume of their dreams, so fragile and yet so interesting. Freddie wishes he could be beautiful enough to deserve this kind of thing. He feels incredibly lucky to even be allowed to touch it.

“Hum, Freddie,” Brian says, and Freddie’s not sure if he’s trying to be discreet or not. 

“Yes?” 

“There’s a—hum.” Brian doesn’t bother explaining everything as he walks to Freddie and puts his delicate hands on his back. Freddie loses his breath as he carefully takes a pin and slowly puts the pins in the fabric, tightening the too-loose fabric around his waist.

It makes Freddie’s whole body shiver as he feels hands softly (and accidentally) stroking his back. It’s Brian, he’s only adjusting his costume, but it still feels different than any other touch they ever shared. It also hurts Freddie’s heart, just thinking about how he’ll never get to be this close to Brian again. He needs to remember this moment. 

There’s another knock at the door, spoiling things somewhat, and John’s voice calls, “Freddie? You in there? I can’t find Bri.”

Freddie clears his throat. Brian hasn’t taken his hands from his back and it’s scrambling his brain. “He’s in here with me, Deaky.”

“Oh.” If Deaky’s surprised, it doesn’t really show in his voice—he’s very hard to read sometimes, when he wants to conceal what he’s thinking. “Well, are you two getting ready? We have to head out here in ten minutes.”

“We’re almost ready,” Brian calls. He tugs at Freddie’s costume, gently, to make sure that the pin holds, and then releases him. Freddie lets out his breath, disappointed, as he moves away.

To distract himself, Freddie goes to the door and opens it, and Deaky’s on the other side. He looks at the both of them but his face doesn’t give anything away, and Freddie isn’t fast enough to see if Brian’s does either. He’s not sure what his own is doing.

“We’re wearing white,” John observes flatly. “Good to know. I’ll tell Roger. Be at the front door in eight minutes, Freddie, all right? Or I’ll drag you out myself, we  _ can’t _ be late.”

“I know, I know.” Freddie tries to hide his wince, to avoid shrinking back. He  _ knows _ he’s slow, he takes forever to get ready—this is just another way he’s hurting the band. They’ll reconsider keeping him here now, he knows they will.

“One of the roadies will be here with the van,” John adds. “It’s Alex, you know how impatient he gets. See you both in a few, then.” And he bobs down the hall to Roger’s room, hammering on the door with much less politeness than he had Freddie’s.

Freddie turns back around to hunt for his shoes, and Brian looks away, though what he could have been gazing at, Freddie can’t fathom. Probably he’s thinking about how the tunic doesn’t fit Freddie properly, how nothing really fits Freddie properly and he’s just an ugly, potato-shaped human  _ thing _ .  _ Freddie _ certainly thinks that, though when he looks at himself in the mirror on the back of his door, he’s surprised to find that he actually looks rather good. Brian’s pinned the tunic very precisely around his waist, and he looks… elegant. Almost decent. Almost like he deserves to wear this beautiful outfit.

But only almost.

“Well,” Freddie says, tearing his eyes away from his own reflection. “Shall we go, darling? Deaky will be very cross if we’re late to the front door and we  _ do _ still have to do our makeup at the venue.”

“Okay,” Brian says. He hasn’t had time to kick Freddie out, not yet, but he doesn’t sound disappointed about having to spend more time with him. “Go ahead and lead the way, Freddie.”

When Freddie looks at him, Brian is, strangely, smiling. It even looks real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was physically painful for us to write such terrible things about Freddie. We enjoyed the positive responses much more haha
> 
> Speaking of positive responses, we've been blown away by how kind and enthusiastic all of you have been! You are the best readers in the world and we love you all. We hope you enjoy this latest installment just as much as the previous ones, and that you're looking forward to the next one!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie makes a decision.

The glare of the lights makes Freddie’s hair stick to the back of his neck. His makeup has probably smeared by now, and who knows if Brian’s pins in his tunic are still where they started out. But he can’t pause to fix any of these issues, can’t even stop to take a breath.

The crowd is  _ wild _ tonight. Not violently so, or angrily, or anything that he’d been afraid would happen after his post earlier, but just really  _ into _ the shredding guitar and heavy drums, and so they’re all racing about the stage, rushing from one heavy number to the next, looking to feed the beast. It’s nights like these that really take it out of Freddie, but in the best way—by the end he’s exhausted, completely worn thin, but he also can’t think of all the mistakes he probably made because he’d been going too bloody fast to even note them in the first place.

It’s not that they’re speeding up their tempo or anything, but stopping to talk to the crowd is necessarily rare on nights like this, when everyone has just come to jam and dance. It feels like they’re playing in a club, something they’ve never actually done, but Freddie imagines the frantic rush from song to song would be similar for any live gig at a club, where dancing is the order of the day.

The upshot is, he doesn’t have time to consider how much of a fuckup he is, or how the boys will probably tell him to leave when they get back to the dressing room. He doesn’t have  _ time _ to worry about social media or the effects of coming out. It’s all music, music, music, channelled through him like it’s meant to be, this must be how he’s meant to live, how could he ever be prepared to give up this life—

Finally, after a roaring rendition of Keep Yourself Alive, Brian signals to Freddie to talk, to say something to the crowd. Roger’s breathing like he’s run a marathon and Brian and Deaky aren’t much better; they need a breather. All four of them do.

Freddie steps forward to the edge of the stage, waving one arm to get the crowd’s attention. “Ah—hello, darlings!” he calls, giving them his best smile, the one that doesn’t show  _ too _ many teeth. “Welcome to our little show!”

There’s a roar of laughter, which is just what he wanted, and he feels a tiny swell of confidence.

“No doubt we’ll be hearing about the volume from the neighbors, darlings, but I say fuck ‘em!”

More laughter, and cheering now too, people punching the air with their fists. He  _ can _ do this, he can.

“So how has the show been so far? Have you been enjoying it, my dears?” He pauses theatrically, for the response, and as the roar of approval dies down, one lone voice shouts into the relative stillness:

“Get over yourself, ya screeching poof!”

Freddie freezes, looking down. He can just pick the man out in the crowd, his mean face sneering. There are a smattering of snickers, quickly stifled, but it’s more than enough. Freddie feels each word, each snatch of muffled laughter, like a knife to the gut.

“Oi!” Roger roars into his microphone, his sudden volume making everyone jump. “If you’re going to be a fucking prick, get out of our show!”

“I paid to be here!” the man retorts with horrible smugness. “ _ You _ can’t do anything about it.”

“The fuck I can,” Roger says dangerously, and he’s getting to his feet. Not far away from him, John is setting his bass down and moving toward the edge of the stage, face set.

Long, slender hands grasp Freddie’s arm. “Come on, Freddie, come on,” Brian whispers hurriedly, tugging him toward the wing of the stage, into the darkness, away from the glare of the lights and people’s expectations. Behind them, Roger is shouting again, and it sounds like either he or Deaky is climbing down off the stage.

Brian pulls Freddie to a stop in the hallway, the dim lights just picking out his eyes and his mouth beneath his wild cloud of hair.

“Freddie,” Brian whispers worriedly. But Freddie doesn’t want to look at him, he can’t handle Brian’s eyes on him, not after  _ that _ . “Are you okay?”

Now Freddie has to look at him, convince him, and he manages to put a wobbly smile on his own lips. Brian doesn’t have to know how weak he is—how ridiculous he is. “I’m perfectly fine, dear!” he says, but the words ring back in his head and a grimace forms on his face without his permission.

“Freddie,” Brian repeats warningly, but his voice is soft.

(He only wants Freddie to tell him how he really feels.)

Freddie rolls his eyes, trying to look as if Brian asking him how he feels is only a bother, something that needs to be put aside. 

“I’m fine, Brian!” He raises his voice, but he regrets it when it cracks, betraying the cover he’s put on. He only realises when he touches his face with trembling fingers that it’s covered in tears.  _ How humiliating. _

He remembers Brian’s words in his nightmare, words that still make him shiver when he thinks of them. He remembers Brian’s face, the disgust that he wore. He looks down at the floor, afraid he’ll be met with the same expression. He’s such a child, crying about everything, feeling too much, too hard about everything. Father was right, he really is too sensitive to be normal. 

He can’t handle standing there, Brian watching him as he cries stupidly and so weakly. How can Brian ever want him after that? Not like he probably ever wanted him in the first place.

Before Brian can even say anything in reply, Freddie’s feet lead him somewhere else; he runs somewhere, anywhere he could cry in peace and not look so pathetic in front of others. 

He closes a closet door behind him, hoping beyond hope that Brian doesn’t follow him. He really hates himself. No wonder everybody else hates him too. Even his family. Or at least his father does. Maybe Kashmira would understand, maybe she’d still want him even if he tells her how much of a failure he is. He should talk to her more, he should be there for her since she’s there for him so much.

Freddie does his best to breathe slowly, wiping at his face every fifteen seconds. His hands come away black with smeared makeup. He’ll have to fix that too, if he wants to go back out there—and he  _ needs _ to go back out there. He can’t leave the boys hanging, not this last time. He can’t bear to let them down this one last time, he’ll never forgive himself.

Still snuffling, he opens the closet door cautiously. There’s nobody around; even Brian has left. Distantly, from the stage, he thinks he overhears Brian and Roger improvising a solo. That’s where he’s got to, then.

Slightly more confident that no one will see him, Freddie hurries to their tiny dressing room. It is, as he hoped, deserted, and he locks himself in before that can change. He sits at the makeup station and, without once looking at his own reflection, uses makeup remover to clean up the black smeared on his cheeks and hands—and a fair amount of tears, too. When he finally dares to meet his own eyes, they’re red and puffy. He looks like he’s been crying in a closet for the past twenty minutes.

He has to go on.  _ He has to go on _ . Whatever the pain, he has to do this one last thing for his best friends, and he clings to that as he reapplies eyeliner and mascara with shaking fingers. There, that will have to do. He looks awful, but there’s very little he can do to fix that now. All he can hope is that Queen will survive this debacle—survive without  _ him _ . He’ll make sure of that.

Biting his lip to hold back a fresh flood of tears, Freddie stands and makes his way back to the stage on trembling legs. Deaky’s the first to spot him from his position at the edge of the lights, and with a signal from him, Roger and Brian wrap up their solo with a flourish. Deaky, who has evidently just been standing there with his bass in one hand and Freddie’s microphone stand in the other, hands the latter to Freddie. His eyes are asking, pleading, but Freddie won’t look at him.

“Our apologies, darlings,” Freddie says, stumbling back out onto the stage on legs that don’t seem to quite work. To his horror, his voice isn’t cooperating either, and it comes out in a croak, like a weak, screamed-out child’s. “We’ll—we’ll be carrying on with Father to Son.” He looks over at Brian, pleadingly, too exhausted and resigned to much care that he’s revealing his weakness for Brian to see. Begging him to just start the concert back up again. To  _ help _ .

Despite heroic efforts from the other three, the rest of the concert does not go terribly well, it has to be said. A lot of the energy has gone from the crowd, even though Roger and Brian guide the set towards heavy, thrashing songs that won’t be impacted as much by Freddie’s now-compromised voice. The people just shift among themselves, muttering. There are a few muted cheers, here and there, but that’s it—and then it’s over. It’s all over.

They trudge back to the dressing room to limp, scattered applause, and Freddie knows the others must be feeling it—how much he screwed up. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

“Let’s go out for a drink,” Roger says bracingly, before they’ve even reached the dressing room door. “We deserve it, after a night with these fuckers.”

“Roger,” Brian whispers, almost warningly.

“No, no, it’s all right,” Freddie manages. He trails after them into the small room, looking at their backs. “You three go ahead. I—I’d rather just go home.”

Roger looks at him with sympathy. He squeezes Freddie’s wrist in one sweat-damp hand. “Do you want one of us to go with you?”

_ Always _ . But Freddie just shakes his head. He’s on the verge of tears again.

“We’ll get some drinks and meet you after, then,” Deaky says, very gently. He pulls Roger away, and they all leave him alone as he wipes off the fresh makeup and gathers his things.

He holds in the tears while he’s in the taxi, trying so hard to not put any more attention on himself. But he lets them fall when he’s finally at the flat. There’s no one there to see him, no one to scowl at his stupid tears. He can’t handle it anymore; he can’t handle any of this. 

He doesn’t hesitate to run in his room, still crying loudly—he probably looks so ridiculous. There’s a bag he brings when they go on tour and he grabs it quickly. There are clothes everywhere in his room and he shoves them in it, a sense of emptiness filling him to the core. He takes his vintage record player in one hand, his bag in the other and looks around in his room for a few seconds. He  _ forces _ himself to look around, for the last time  _ ever _ . 

Memories are fighting against each other, making his heart squeeze painfully. He needs to remember everything, from the first moment in this room to the last. Blinking hard, like that will help capture anything he’s foolishly forgotten, he closes the door behind him, wiping new tears away. 

He slowly walks to Brian’s room, trying not to touch too many things, trying not to make a mess. Brian’s scent fills his nostrils, and he doesn’t want to forget it, he can’t let himself forget it. Without thinking, he opens the closet and takes a random T-shirt—one that Brian doesn’t wear too often—and puts it in his bag, hoping the scent won’t ever fade away. 

He closes the door, feeling like his heart is gonna explode. He doesn’t know how he’ll live without Brian, but he doesn’t have a choice. His throat closes up when he locks the front door, the wind and the night freezing his whole body. He slides the key back in the flat, through the letter slot. There’s no turning back now. 

He doesn’t look back at the flat when he walks away, tears still shining on his face in the moonlight. He walks as quickly as possible. When he’s far enough away, he pulls out his cell phone, turning it back and forth in his hands for a long moment. He never wanted to do this, to reach this point, but there’s only one possible contact he can call right now. He selects the phone number of the only place he could go, in the middle of the night, more miserable than he’s ever been. 

He’s still crying when the person answers the phone and, brokenly, sobbing, he says a few words:

“Mama, can I come home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing to read our ramblings. We love you all!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie comes home.

The silence is deafening.

Freddie picks at his breakfast listlessly, wishing that his parents would continue their usual early-morning nonsense conversations, the ones that usually don’t mean anything in the course of the day because his father is still tired and not entirely paying attention. Or that Kash would speak up and say something. But nobody dares—his father is stone-faced at the head of the table, and his mother pale and drawn, and Kash keeps looking between them all like she expects an explosion. She’s being obvious about it so Freddie will notice too.

He just wants to put his head down on the table and keep crying, like he did all night. His eyes are red and puffy, he saw them for about two seconds in the bathroom mirror before he came downstairs. He looks horrible. He looks like he’s lost everything he ever wanted in one night, and isn’t that the truth?

“Farrokh,” his father says at last, disapproval so clear in his voice that it’s like a slap. Freddie actually flinches, turning his face away.

“Dear,” Mama murmurs, and he’s not sure if she’s talking to Papa or himself.

“No, Jer, the boy’s been foolish. Farrokh, what did we tell you when you went off to join that band instead of pursuing some sort of career?”

Freddie stares down at his plate. “That it would go nowhere, Papa, and I—I would end up back here.”

“Exactly as I said,” Papa says, like the tolling of a bell. “And here you are. Have you learned anything from this adventure or will you be back out the door in a week, back to living on the edge, hardly able to afford food or lodging—”

“Dear,” Mama says, more forcefully now. “He’s hardly slept. Can’t you leave it be for a few days, at least?”

“He’ll be gone in a few days, Jer, back to whatever he’s been doing.”

Mama doesn’t reply, only manages a small, pained smile. Freddie feels a small, stockinged foot press against his ankle under the table—Kash, next to him, offering comfort as unobtrusively as she can. He fights back more tears.

He doesn’t want to be there; he doesn’t know if he wants to be anywhere, really. These are the times when he thinks back to boarding school, when he was a small child, abandoned by his family, alone in a place too big for him. He felt as alone as he feels right now. The look his dad gives him now is probably the same as the one he put on when he read his letters years ago. Letters filled with pleas and hidden tears. He can’t handle disappointing him again. 

At least Mama seems to understand better; maybe she just can see that he doesn’t feel right today—that maybe he’ll never feel right again. At least this time she’s defending him instead of watching him be sent away with only a tear in her eyes.

At least Kash has always believed in him. She’s always silently told him to keep going, to fight his way through this unfair world. He’s scared, though, that this time she’s secretly given up on him, that she thinks too that it’s really the end, that he’ll have to go back to school, study to be a lawyer or something. 

If Kash still believes in him, at least there’s one person left that does. He doesn’t believe in  _ himself _ anymore. He was young, when he joined Smile, so naive and hopeful, blinded by everything in London. Everything seemed perfect in London, so why wouldn’t it work out in the end? He didn’t think about who he was, how different he was. Plenty of people made it, why couldn’t he?

He’d been so stupid. Of course he’d never make it as a singer. 

Maybe it was Brian’s smiles that fooled him. They looked so genuine that it could only be true. Brian believed in him—of course he did. Maybe he did in the beginning. Maybe he believed that his voice could be enough to cover the wrong things. But Freddie just ruined everything. He changed the name, changed everything Smile. He made the new bassists leave, he made people in concerts get out. There’s no way Brian still wants him. There’s no way he still believes in him. 

“I—I won’t be gone in a few days, Papa,” he manages. Fumbling, he wipes at his face, furious to discover that his cheeks are wet with the tears he fought so hard to hold back. “I’m sorry to trouble you all. Will you—will you please keep my old bandmates away, if they come looking for me? Just tell them that I don’t want to see them again. Please, Papa, I’m really—I’m really trying to do better now.”

He doesn’t expect that they’ll show up—no, he doubts it—but they might try to bring back some of his things that he no doubt forgot in his haste to pack. Brian might come looking for his shirt. And Freddie can’t bear to see any of them again. If he sees Brian, or Roger, or John, he’ll beg them to take him back. He’s weak; he knows himself. He won’t be able to stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

Papa, at least, looks a little less disapproving now. “Of course,” he says. “Your mother and I will make sure they don’t see you. Right, Jer?”

“Of course,” Mama agrees. She puts a small hand on Freddie’s forearm. “It may be for the best, dear, as I’m sure you’ve already considered.”

“Yes.” Freddie can’t look at them for long. He’s horribly ashamed by his tears, his failure. “I’m not really hungry, Mama,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Can I go?”

“Go ahead, darling,” she says, leaning across the table to kiss his forehead. “I’ll save the leftovers and you can have them later.”

He nods—he doubts he’ll be hungry for any leftovers later, but whatever comforts her—and pushes away from the table. He flees back to his old room without looking back, his head down, and shuts the door behind himself, throwing himself onto the bed. Here, he can hide his tears in the pillow, pull the covers over himself. Maybe if he’s lucky the whole world will forget that he exists and he can just disappear.

Some time later, there’s a small, furtive knock on the door. “Freddie?” Kash’s voice calls. “Can I come in?”

Freddie sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He reminds himself that it’s Kash, not his parents, and Kash has always understood. “All right,” he croaks, and though his voice is small and ruined and muffled by blankets, she still must hear him, because she slips through the door. He hears her padding across the carpet, and then her slight weight settles next to him on the mattress.

She sets a hand on his shoulder, and her palm is warm even through the sheets. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Can I join you?”

He considers this for a moment, but he’s too tired to fight her, and it sounds… nice. Like the forts they used to build when they were small, before he got sent away. He remembers the two of them hiding beneath their combined blankets, giggling long into the night, convinced that nobody knew where they were. “Okay,” he whispers, and lifts up a corner of the covers.

Kash slips easily through the gap. She’s small, like their mother and Freddie, fine-boned and delicate, and she tucks herself along Freddie’s side, looking solemnly into his face. Her eyes gleam in the half-light. “Hey,” she says quietly, draping one arm over his waist. Her other hand cards through his bangs, smoothing out the tangles.

“Hi,” Freddie whispers, and he giggles quietly through his tears. He’s so thankful to have his little sister with him, under the covers, holding him. It’s childish, maybe a bit girly for him to need this kind of affection so bad. But he doesn’t bother caring, not when it feels so good and comfortable. Not when he feels so much happier already.

“What happened, Freddie?” Kashmira says worriedly.

(She’s never seen her brother this sad, so defeated to the point of giving up on the thing usually making him the happiest.)

Freddie sniffles, feeling tears prickling at his eyes again. Thinking about all of what happened hurts so much. It hurts so bad that as soon as he arrived home he just deleted Instagram, blocked the boys everywhere on his phone. He’s scared to go on Twitter or Instagram, to see one of the boys’ posts, talking about him, about how he’s gone. He’s scared that they’ll look pleased, that it’s a big relief for them. He  _ knows _ it is, but thinking about it hurts less than really seeing it. 

He’s scared that one day he’ll see a post about a new singer for Queen, that they’ll change the name again, that they’ll be with someone good enough, someone that deserves the part. That’ll happen too, but he doesn’t want to see that either. He doesn’t want to know that someone replaced him, that the boys are so much happier without him.

Thinking about it doesn’t help the tears, when he feels too stuck, when he feels as if he could explode with the effort of holding the tears in, and he breaks down in heavy sobs that he’s not able to stop. His chest is incredibly painful. “Everybody hates me, Kashi, e-everybody,” he whispers even if it’s probably muffled even more by his cries. 

He grips the hand his sister offers him. He forces himself to calm down, to not make such a scene. He knows it’s just Kashmira, but he’s just so used to doing it.

“I’m sure that’s not true, Freddie. Nobody hates you. You’re too kind for that,” she explains quietly. 

_ If only you knew, _ he wants to say so badly.

“I—I guess,” is what he manages instead, but even he can hear how doubtful he sounds.

“Really,” Kash says earnestly, gripping his hand tightly in return. “You’re amazing, Freddie. You see what you want and you go after it. I’ve always admired you for that, and I’m sure other people do too.”

Freddie just shakes his head. He pushes his face into the pillow and closes his eyes.

He can feel Kash watching him. “What happened?” she asks. She traces his knuckles with her small fingers, soothingly. “Why do you think people don’t like you?”

“I—” He swallows, hard, and then it all comes spilling out, in a great, unstoppable torrent: “I screwed up. I always screw up, but I really messed up this time, and then—and then I told them things about me. Not just my friends, but—but people online too. And they were all so  _ horrible _ about it.” He’s crying again.

“Your friends too?” Kash asks, voice sharp.

“Well—” Freddie pauses. “They didn’t  _ say _ anything. But I’m sure they would have, if I’d stayed around. They were just looking for a reason to get r-rid of me, you see, because I’m what’s keeping them f-from success.” He wipes at his face, uselessly; the tears just keep on coming.

“That  _ can’t _ be true,” Kash protests, “Freddie, I’ve heard you sing, you’re incredible!”

“I’m n- _ not _ . I was just—just deluding myself. I need to—get a proper job, like Papa says.” At the thought of giving up everything he’s ever worked for, of admitting that his dreams are dead, Freddie starts sobbing and can’t go on.

Rather than pushing him away, rightfully disgusted, Kash pulls him close and lets him cry on her shoulder. She strokes his shoulders and back with the same soft, soothing motions their mother uses, and it’s unbelievably comforting, even as Freddie’s drowning in misery. “Is there anything else?” she asks carefully. “Do you…  _ like _ any of these people? Is that why it hurts so much?”

Unwillingly, Freddie thinks of Brian’s shirt, stuffed carefully inside a desk drawer, where hopefully it will keep its scent longer. He just nods into Kash’s shirt, and luckily she doesn’t ask for any further details.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Freddie, that’s awful.” One of her hands moves to his hair, her nails gently scraping his scalp. “Cry it out,” she suggests, very quietly. “That’s what I do. It might help?”

Freddie doesn’t suppose it will, but at this point he has nothing else to try. And it’s nice, lying with Kash like this, in the warm dark, like they’re the only two people in the entire world. If that were true, he thinks, it wouldn’t be such a bad world after all.

“ _ Dooset dâram,  _ Kashi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you guys enjoy! Know that you are the best readers anyone could ever ask for and that we love you all madly~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with his sister’s help, Freddie is no happier at home, but he’s convinced he can’t go back to the boys.

Eventually, when Freddie’s tears have slowed some, Kash slips out to use the restroom, leaving him alone.

Freddie sneaks his phone out from under his pillow and just stares at the lock screen for a long moment, swallowing hard. It’s his favorite picture of the four of them—they’re at some pub but the lighting is actually decent, and they’re all crammed into one side of the booth. Roger has his arms around all of them, a big, happy grin on his face, and even Deaky’s smiling, that sweet, sheepish smile that makes Freddie want to bundle him up and keep him safe. And then there’s Brian, pressed to Freddie’s side, his mop of curls pressed to the top of Freddie’s head, his eyes almost shut because he’s laughing. They all look so  _ happy _ , even Freddie, who’s tucked right in the middle, right where he always wants to be. Even his smile can’t ruin the brightness, the joy.

Wiping away fresh tears—when will they  _ stop? _ —he opens his phone and flicks through to the photos app. He’s in the mood to suffer, to wallow in what he’s lost. He  _ misses _ them and it’s only been a matter of hours, and pictures won’t do but they’re all he has—pictures of Roger attempting to cook, and Deaky concentrating on his bass, and Brian reading with his hair stuck up all over the place. Pictures of their shitty apartment, the one he’ll never see again. Pictures of his best friends, who will walk away from him without once looking back.

He misses them so much already. The lack of their presence leaves a dark void in his heart, too big to ever be forgotten. He’s lived so many years for Queen, everything he did was for Queen, everything he gave up was for Queen. Now there’s no Queen for him anymore. 

It’s sad how much of a waste the songs he was writing are—not that they’re particularly good. But he worked so hard on them, hours of lying awake in bed thinking after the next lyrics, having a melody stuck in his mind, replaying over and over again without a break. They’re useless now; maybe they’d just be better in the trash can. In the Lap of the Gods, Lily of the Valley, Killer Queen… what’s the point?

Miserably, Freddie drags himself from the bed and stumbles to his desk. Carefully, so carefully, he fishes out Brian’s shirt, hugging it to his chest.

This is all he has left.

This is all he deserves.

Crying in earnest again now, he retreats to the bed, pulling the covers up over his head and curling up against the wall, Brian’s shirt clutched to him. If only he could be  _ different _ , be  _ fixed _ —

Kash returns, sliding in behind him. She nestles her small, hard chin into the nape of his neck. She doesn’t say anything, just squeezes him and lets him cry until their little cave under the sheets is damp with his sobs, and that’s how they spend the rest of the day.

It’s one of the worst Freddie can remember. Maybe even worse than when he was sent away, because this time he  _ knows _ it was his fault and he did it to himself. He’s old enough now to take responsibility for his own failings, and somehow that makes it even more horrible—that he still hasn’t changed, that he’s still that same little boy nobody wants.

Nobody but Kash, anyway, who holds him until he finally falls into an exhausted doze, face pressed to Brian’s shirt and phone forgotten by the pillow.

(When she’s sure he’s asleep, Kash reaches out and picks up Freddie’s phone. It only takes a couple of tries to unlock it, and she clicks through to his contacts, her brows furrowed.

She has to know for sure.)

  
  
  


“Here are the wanted ads, Farrokh,” his father says the next morning, laying the paper in front of his plate.

Freddie stares at the blocks of black-and-white text, his mind curiously blank. He doesn’t quite know what to say. He feels like he’s on the verge of something, inside, something that’s probably awful.

“Dear,” Mama whispers.

“There’s no use in sitting around,” Papa says to Freddie. “Find a job, it will help take your mind off this… band.” In his mouth,  _ band _ sounds like  _ rodent _ , or  _ trash _ , or  _ queer _ . Papa has never really understood. Freddie understands why, he really does, but—it still—

It  _ hurts _ .

“Oh,” Freddie mumbles. The words are blurring before him.

Maybe it’s because Papa wants him gone too, out of the house, not to be seen too many nights. He knows he’s a lot sometimes, too often too much to even handle. He knows he’s hard to live with, taking too much space,  _ breathing too much air.  _ Papa’s never really liked him. He’s always wanted him gone. 

“Dear,” Mama says again, more forcefully. “I don’t think—”

“If Farrokh is going to stay in this house, he needs to find a job,” Papa says with finality. “He’s not in school any longer. Do you understand, Farrokh?” It’s like Papa thinks if he repeats the name enough, Freddie will stop being Freddie and start being the son he’s always wanted.

“Papa, I—”

“Give him some time, Bomi,” Mama interjects. “He’s only been here a couple of days. Let him settle in first.”

“Settle in? Or go back to the way he was living before?” Papa snaps. “Your friends came looking for you this morning, Farrokh, and I told them that you did not want to see them, like you asked. Will you go back to them? Where is your resolve?”

Freddie jerks, shocked. They  _ came? _ Roger, Deaky, and Brian ( _ Brian! _ )—they actually came and looked for him? They found out where his parents lived and came round to ask for him?

Kash, wide-eyed beside him, is the only other person who looks anything like surprised. His parents are both staring at him, tensely. Waiting for him to walk back out the door, he realizes.

But surely the others only came to try to return some of his forgotten things—yes, that must be it. He lets himself deflate, forces himself to remember that he’s still all wrong, still holding them back. They’ll realize soon, if they haven’t already.

“I’ll be staying here,” Freddie says, exhausted. He can’t look at anyone, not even Kashmira. “I—I’ll look at the jobs, Papa, I promise.”

Papa, finally, seems pleased, or something like it, though Mama still looks a little worried. Kash tilts her head down towards her plate, her hair hiding her face.

(No one dares to speak a word, to disturb the thick atmosphere that makes it hard for Freddie to breathe.)

Freddie doesn’t know what job he’ll do, will he even be good at anything? He’s never been good at much, at least not enough to make Papa proud, to make him see that he can be a good son. Maybe he’ll find something related to art, maybe his degree could be useful for once. It’ll probably still make Papa scowl at him. 

Everything feels a bit too hopeless—too much to make Freddie feel as if the whole world is crumbling around him. The entire world has decided that he doesn’t deserve the fame, the success, the love. There’s not much left after that, not much that could still make him important. No, he’s not important, he’s never been. 

The few days after feel almost exactly the same. There are more tears too hard to hide—too hard to keep inside of him. Kashmira is often there when he needs someone to hold onto. Most nights are spent together, in the same bed with Freddie holding so hard onto her hand, praying that she’ll still be there the next morning. She always is, of course. 

He did search for the jobs, walking around town, not really feeling as if he belonged there. Usually, one of the boys would be there with him, keeping up a small talk. He needs to deal with it alone, even if it involves sometimes stopping tears from spilling when he walks in front of a place full of memories. He doesn’t have the choice but to do it alone. 

He’d done a few interviews, hopeful it would work, even if his resume isn’t as good as it could really be. He wants to make Papa proud,  _ once.  _ The waiting for the answers is the worst, he doesn’t know when he’ll receive them, if he ever will.

The meals are often the same, full of questions he isn’t ready to answer, full of telling him that he needs to get his life back together.  _ It’s not too late for going back to school,  _ Papa's looks say every night. They’re filled with slight touches from Kashmira, hoping to comfort him—to heal at least a bit the bleeding wounds he wears. Mama still looks at him with sadness in her eyes, but she only defends him sometimes, telling Papa to leave him some time. But the more days pass, the less her excuses are valid. 

He doesn’t have the courage to delete any pictures on his phone, instead he looks at them again and again. It hurts so bad, but he can’t help himself. They make him remember those moments so well, as if he’s still there, he needs to feel their presence at least a bit. It just stings horribly when he looks away from his phone to realize that he’s alone again. 

He tries several times to throw away his notebook, the one filled with messily written words. He can’t, even after telling himself it’s for the best, it’s one step too much yet. He’s not ready for something like that, it’s hours and hours of work, of feeling all out in songs, they’re like his children, and he loves them, no matter how bad they probably are.

He ends up wrapping the notebook in Brian’s shirt and hiding it away in a drawer again. Brian’s shirt is starting to lose its distinctive  _ Brian _ scent—he shouldn’t be holding onto it so often, he’ll just ruin that too. He knows, logically, that one day everything that makes the shirt  _ Brian _ will be lost to time, but he wants to cling for as long as he can. He can’t bear to lose that last connection, the last thread connecting them, even if it’s only in his mind.

Roger, Deaky, and Brian haven’t tried to contact him again, at least not that Papa or Mama have said. No, no, he’s sure they haven’t been round—they’ve realized what a screwup he is and they’ve left him behind. They’ve probably moved on to looking for a new singer already, one that really belongs with Queen. Not someone like Freddie, who only brings the group down.

He needs to stop  _ thinking _ like this, even if it’s true, even if it’s probably doing him good to reflect on his mistakes. It all only makes him cry and cling to Kash all the harder. She probably doesn’t have any feeling left in her hand.

(Kash has been quiet, comforting. Calculating. She has plans of her own.)

And so it goes for nearly a week—a long, horrible, tearful week full of nights where Freddie cries himself to sleep and days spent avoiding all social media for fear of seeing something from the boys. He’s terrified to admit to anyone what’s gone wrong, too, that’s another thing to dread, one more weight on his shoulders. Oh, he can’t bear to imagine the posts he’ll have to make, admitting that the critics were right—he really  _ can’t _ sing, he’s the weak link, he’s the reason Queen won’t succeed and that’s why he left.

He’s stewing on this in his room, sat on his bed with his knees pulled to his chest, when Kash stops by to tell him that she’s going to the store with Mama.

“Do you want to come?” she asks, though the slight twist to her mouth tells him that she already knows what his answer will be.

Freddie turns his face away. “No,” he mumbles. “I’m—no. I’m sorry.”

She sets a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’ll make Mama take me out to lunch. Give you some time on your own?” She smiles.

He shrugs. He doesn’t really care, honestly, one way or the other, though he supposes a few hours without critical looks from any parents might be nice. With Papa at work and Mama and Kash out, he’ll be alone for the first time since he got here.

“Okay,” Kash says. “I’ll see you when we get back.” She squeezes his shoulder and backs out the door.

He hears them clattering around downstairs, chattering to each other, then the door slamming behind them as they leave. The house is very quiet without them, and Freddie tips his head back against the wall. He’s so  _ tired _ . He might even be cried out.

All at once, the doorbell rings, and he jumps, banging his head. Freddie yelps, rubbing the sore spot and wincing. God, even like this he’s a fuckup.

It’s probably a solicitor, so he doesn’t move, but when it rings again, and a third time, he finally drags himself off his bed and down the stairs, scrubbing a hand through his untidy hair. He must look horrid, and he’s busy thinking about his tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes when he yanks the front door open and stops short.

It’s Roger. And Deaky. And Brian. ( _ Brian. _ ) Stood on his front porch staring back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we hope you like that ending better than the last few! There will be some more answers about what the boys have been up to in Freddie's absence in the next chapter, so look forward to that.
> 
> As always, you have been the best readers anyone could ask for and we love you all! Thank you so much for sticking with us, darlings~


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys, after Freddie leaves, can only think about getting him back.

Brian stumbles back into the flat at some ungodly hour, Roger slung between John and himself, the three of them supporting each other as they walk. He’s drunk  _ way _ too much, more than he normally would, but he feels so  _ useless _ . He should have done more, at the show tonight一more to help Freddie, to soothe his tears. Should have done  _ anything _ , really, other than stand there uselessly and then go back to the stage.

The door slams behind them一which one of them kicked it shut, he doesn’t actually know一and as a unit they stumble into the tiny hall table that Freddie found at a thrift store. He was so proud of that thing when he brought it home, telling anyone who would listen that it was a genuine something-or-other. Brian can’t remember what, just now, but he’d been happy to listen to Freddie being happy, to watch that huge, pleased smile on his face. Freddie’s beautiful when he smiles. Actually, he’s beautiful all the time.

“Shhh,” Roger says, attempting to hold a finger to his lips. He fails because he has one arm around John and the other around Brian, but the movement is enough to send them swaying into the wall this time with a  _ thump _ . “Freddie’s asleep! Be quiet!”

None of them know yet that Freddie isn’t there anymore.

  
  
  


It’s Roger who discovers he’s missing. He’s up (relatively) early, for some reason一Brian only hears about it second-hand and by that point Roger is frantic一and bangs into Freddie’s room, perhaps in a misguided attempt to apologize for their racket the night before.

Then he bursts into Brian’s bedroom, waking him with a jolt when the door bangs against the wall. “Freddie’s gone,” he says, rushed and frightened. He grabs at Brian beneath his sheets and shakes him. “Brian, Brian, wake up! Freddie’s gone, his stuff’s gone, he’s not here!”

“Wha?” Brian asks, groggily. He’s not convinced his brain has processed any of this properly.

“Freddie’s  _ gone, _ ” Roger repeats. “Fuck’s sake, Brian, he’s packed up and一and left, or something, most of his clothes are gone, his record player too!”

Brian’s awake now. Freddie loves his vintage record player一and his clothes一if they’re gone, then一then一 “Did he  _ say _ something?” he says, suddenly scared. “Did he mention something last night? Is he visiting his parents?”

“I don’t know! I don’t remember!”

Deaky appears in the doorway, rumpled, his hair sticking up every which way. “What’s going on?” he asks. “What’s this about Freddie?”

So Roger shows them.

Freddie’s room has been turned upside-down. There are still some clothes in the dresser一rejects, maybe一but all of the drawers are pulled out and Freddie’s suitcase is gone. His record player is gone. His shoes are gone.  _ He’s _ gone.

“Where  _ is _ he?” Roger demands, as if any of them know. “Where did he go? Did he say anything? Deaky! Did he say anything to you?”

John shakes his head. He doesn’t seem to have any words for what he’s looking at right now; his face is white as the sheets on Freddie’s unmade bed.

“Maybe he’s at his parents’,” Brian suggests desperately. “Maybe he’s just visiting and一and he didn’t want to do without his records. Have you texted him? God! We need to text him!”

Roger immediately whips out his phone. “What do I say? Do I ask if someone died?”

“Just ask where he is, Roger!”

Roger’s fingers fly across his phone screen, and then he pauses, frowning. He tilts it towards them. “It came back as blocked.”

“Try Instagram,” Deaky suggests suddenly.

“Right, right, you’re right,” Roger mumbles distractedly, swiping madly. Again, he pauses, but this time his expression is almost thunderous. “He deleted his account? What the  _ fuck _ , Freddie!” he explodes, and throws his phone. Luckily, it lands on Freddie’s bed and bounces harmlessly.

“That can’t be right,” Brian says. His heart is choking him. He can’t  _ breathe _ , and he hurries to dig out his own phone from his room, navigating to the Instagram app. He doesn’t want to see the horrible things people say about Freddie, not now, not with  _ this _ going on, but he’ll endure if he can just send him a message一

But Roger’s right. Freddie’s account has disappeared.

“I can’t find him either,” Deaky says from the doorway. His normally placid expression has vanished, replaced with clear worry. “And my texts are bouncing back.”

“Where does he live?” Brian asks. “Does anyone know where his parents live?”

They don’t, and now they wish they asked once, they wish they insisted on going with him to visit them from time to time. They need to find him, because there’s something going on and the worry is increasing each minute. 

Brian’s stomach churns when he thinks back to last night. Freddie  _ cried _ , there’s no way he felt better already when he came back to the flat. But can’t have left only for that, no—surely there’s something they’re missing. 

Collectively, they search Freddie’s room, turning it even more upside down. They’re doing it as if Freddie would have needed to note down his parents’ address on paper. He has his phone for that. They still continue searching, maybe he left a note?

There’s no note, no address. 

They look at each other a few seconds, the same look in their faces, the same worry, the same feeling of being lost, of missing a piece of the puzzle. Why did he even leave? 

There’s slight anger that grows slowly inside of Brian—he’s angry at himself, for not noticing, for not knowing. They’re best friends, they should know everything that’s not going. Why didn’t Freddie say what bothered him? Why didn’t he tell them he was gonna leave instead of you just leaving like that, without a goodbye, without a last word worth remembering. 

They decide to eat at least breakfast before doing anything. Maybe they’ll think better after that? They’re just trying everything they can, because they need him so bad. There’s a heavy silence at the table, nobody wants to talk, wants to express what is going on in their mind, that not knowing anything is fucking killing them. 

Everything feels slightly weird, there’s something missing when they’re sat there, when they’re together. Everybody would notice it. Freddie brings them together. He’s the one that usually talks loads in the morning, some people would complain, but they never did because of how lucky they felt, how lucky they were. Even only getting through breakfast is hard without him. 

“We need to find him quickly,” John whispers. He still looks too pale, the headache of his hangover probably now hitting him with force.

(He can’t help thinking that they’re supposed to record quite soon, they planned so much, so many gigs, what are they gonna do? How can any of them go on without Freddie?

John doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.)

There are answering nods of heads, so little that they’re barely noticeable. None of them feel so hungry anymore. 

  
  
  


In the end, Brian’s able to find the Bulsaras on the internet, and it turns out that they live only a few streets away from his own parents. He feels so… stupid. Like he should have known. Like he and Freddie should have met earlier, should have known each other for years before they really did. He’s missed out on so much, and who knows what else might be going on一

No. He mustn’t think like that. He has to try not to panic. They’ll go to the Bulsaras and they’ll get Freddie back and it will all be fine. He has to believe that, or he’ll melt, he’ll have to shut himself up in his room and not come out for days. He can feel the depression lurking again, threatening to come down. Oh, Freddie,  _ why? _ Why did he leave them? Why did he leave  _ Brian? _

He’s Brian’s light in the darkness, his muse, his best writing partner and overall, just一his best friend. He can’t go on without him in his life, he  _ can’t _ . He doesn’t know what he’ll do.

As a group, they take the bus all the way to Feltham, and Roger guides them the rest of the way with the maps app on his phone. They find themselves, at last, outside of a little terrace house just like Brian’s parents’, and it’s so much the same that he gets deja vu.

“Well, here we are,” Roger says unnecessarily. He pockets his phone, and they trudge up to the door.

Deaky knocks, and he’s the one who first speaks up when a stout, bespectacled man answers the door. “Hello,” he says politely. “We’re looking for Freddie Mercury. Does he live here?”

At once, the man’s face changes, closes off. “Ah,” he says, “you must be the rest of the band.” For a second, one glorious second, Brian feels a surge of hope, and then the man一Freddie’s father一adds, “Farrokh doesn’t want to see you. Please leave.”

“He一 _ what? _ ” Brian says numbly.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” Freddie’s father repeats patiently, like they’re idiot children. “Please, don’t bother my family any more.”

“That can’t be right,” Roger says, desperate, pushing himself to the front of their little huddle. “We’re his best mates, he  _ must _ want to see us一we just want to ask him一”

“No, no, Rog, come on,” Deaky murmurs. He grasps Roger by the elbow, and Roger is clearly so shocked by everything that’s happening that he allows it, allows himself to be tugged back. “We’re sorry to have bothered you,” he adds to Mr. Bulsara, and grabs Brian’s arm too when Brian can’t get his legs to move.

It’s torture, walking away from that house, knowing that Freddie is somewhere inside一somewhere, away from them, and not wanting to  _ talk _ to them.

“What the fuck is going on?” Roger bursts out when they’re down the street a ways. An old woman walking her dog casts him a scandalized look; he doesn’t seem to notice. “Why won’t he see us?!”

“I don’t know,” John says tensely. “I don’t know.”

“We have to see him,” Brian says, and inside he’s hopeless, despairing. It doesn’t seem likely that they will. It suddenly doesn’t seem likely that Freddie  _ does _ want to see them一perhaps they offended him somehow, or something happened, or一

Oh, God, he  _ can’t _ .

“Brian,” John says suddenly, and takes his arm. “Brian, it’s okay. All right? We’ll find a way to talk to him. We just have to get past his parents and一and find a way to make it just us. Then I’m sure he’ll listen.”

“Maybe they made him come home,” Roger speculates wildly. “They never understood why he was in a band, he told me that once.”

“Maybe,” Deaky agrees. “But we won’t know until we ask him. And we  _ will _ ask him. One way or the other, we’ll find a way to talk to him一promise?”

“Promise,” Roger says instantly.

“Promise,” Brian echoes, breathless, aching.

  
  
  


They don’t come up with a way in. The way in comes to them. Specifically, it comes to Brian’s phone.

_ is this brian? this is kashmira, freddie’s sister. I want to talk _

Heart pounding, Brian seizes his phone from beside him on the couch. With shaking fingers, he types out:  _ This is Brian. How is Freddie? Is he okay? We’re so worried about him, he left so suddenly. _

[Kash]:  _ did you say something to him? _

[Brian]:  _ What do you mean? _

[Kash]:  _ he’s convinced you all hate him. he says he told you something and you would have kicked him out if he’d stayed _

_ Never, _ Brian types, tears in his eyes.  _ Never never never. He’s our best friend. How could he say we hate him?! If he’s talking about coming out we were all so proud of him, he’s so brave, I was in awe _

Then he realizes what he’s sent and he bites his lip.  _ I mean. He didn’t come out like that. _

[Kash]:  _ it’s okay, I know. so you would never have said anything horrible to him? people say horrible things to him on social media all the time _

[Brian]:  _ People are jerks. We throw them out of our concerts if they say things like that to him in person. I’ve also been telling them off on social media since he’s too nice to. Please, just tell me he’s all right, we’re so worried about him. _

[Kash]:  _ he’s not all right. he’s miserable. I don’t think he really wanted to leave but he convinced himself he had to. _

[Brian]:  _ Please, can you help us talk to him? Let us tell him that we never would have kicked him out. We want him back. We don’t know what to do with ourselves without him. We tried to talk to him the other day but your dad sent us away. _

[Kash]:  _ he’s so sad. you CAN’T make it worse _

[Brian]:  _ I don’t want to make it worse, I want to help. Please, Kashmira, let us tell him what he means to us. He’s so important. _

[Kash]:  _ if I get you in, will you really tell him that? _

[Brian]:  _ I’ll tell him that every day for the rest of his life. Please, Kash. _

[Kash]:  _ … okay. I think I can persuade my mom to take me shopping. come over at 10 and I’ll let you know when the house is empty _

[Brian]:  _ Thank you, Kash. Thank you thank you thank you _

In some ways, Brian feels worse than he did before. Sure, it’s a relief to know that they’ll be able to  _ talk _ to him, but the thought of Freddie thinking they hate him is unbearable. How can he believe that? They need him. They  _ love  _ him. ( _ Brian _ loves him.)

Telling John and Roger is horrible. There’s a lump in Brian’s throat for each word he speaks. They’re as shocked as him一when did they ever act like they did? It can’t be true. He can’t believe that.

Brian feels obligated to talk about what happened backstage the day he left. They should know, maybe then they’ll understand, maybe they’ll find out how this could have happened. They shouldn’t have left him, they shouldn’t have let him go back home alone, probably thinking over and over again about those words said to him. They should have been there to wipe away his tears instead of getting drunk somewhere else. 

They all feel nervous when they think about having to have this conversation. If Freddie will even want to talk. Maybe he’ll just close the door in their faces, too convinced that they hate him, too convinced they don’t want him. Maybe he’ll tell Kashmira to never let them come again. Maybe he’ll start his life over again, miserable, find a new job, live like an ordinary man. He’s not ordinary. And they’ll make sure he doesn’t convince himself he is. They won’t ever give up on him.  _ Ever. _

They don’t talk much when they walk to the Bulsaras’ house. Nobody knows what to say, how to act. They should be happy they found a way to talk to their best friend, and they are. But their worry is so much stronger that they completely forget about the fact they should be delighted that they found him. 

Knocking on the door, Brian feels his stomach churn. He needs to knock several times before the door opens. It’s Freddie, he’s  _ there _ , looking incredibly shocked to see them here, looking for him. No matter how much Brian sees how beautiful he is, he can also see how  _ miserable  _ he looks. 

He just stares at them, jaw slack, hand still on the knob. At least he hasn’t slammed the door in their faces yet.

Brian takes a deep breath. “Freddie? Can we talk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you all enjoyed this glimpse into what the boys have been up to after Freddie left them. They're so worried, poor things.
> 
> We, on the other hand, are endlessly thrilled by how fabulous you all are, and thank you as always for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! You all rock~


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a conversation.

Freddie’s too stunned to see Brian, Roger, and Deaky on his parents’ doorstep to immediately respond, and then Brian speaks, ruining any opportunity to slam the door on them and pretend they don’t exist.

“Freddie? Can we talk?”

Never mind. He absolutely will pretend they don’t exist. Freddie jerks back a step and slams the door in their faces.

Or, at least, tries to, because fast as lightning Roger jumps into the gap, grabbing the edge of the door and preventing it from shutting. He shoulders his way inside, and Freddie shrinks away from the mingled look of anger and concern on his face.

“ _ Absolutely _ not!” Roger says. His voice is shaking, badly. “We’re having our say, you hear me, Freddie Mercury?” He points at Freddie with a trembling finger. “You would not  _ believe _ how worried we’ve been about you, mate, it’s the  _ least _ you can do to hear us out!”

Freddie covers his ears. He can’t hear this, he  _ can’t _ . “No,” he says, and he can feel tears on his face again. “No, I don’t want to listen. Go away.”

“Oh, Freddie, why are you this way?” Roger asks, despairing, muffled through Freddie’s palms, and then he steps forward and hugs Freddie tightly before he can get away, crushes him close, really, with all the surprising strength in his slender arms. “You  _ idiot, _ ” he says, and Freddie’s shocked to feel tears against his shoulder. Roger’s crying too.

Deaky and Brian, edging through the open door, are both pale-faced and red-eyed, like they haven’t slept recently, or at least not well. All three of them look dreadful—almost as dreadful as Freddie himself does. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Surely they’ve only come to tell Freddie to pick up the last of his things? Why do they look so devastated?

Wordlessly, Deaky steps forward, enfolding both Roger and Freddie in a hug, one arm around Roger’s back and the other around Freddie’s. A bare second later, Brian joins the little huddle, his long arms encircling the lot of them, his hair in Freddie’s face, wildly unkempt and curly and smelling of  _ Brian _ , more than his stolen shirt does these days.

Freddie doesn’t know what to do. His chest is splitting in two, tearing around the pain, the knowledge that he’ll never have this sweetness again. A horrible sob wrenches his whole body, and he crumples into Roger, helpless to resist, hiding his face in his neck and just letting the tears fall. He can’t  _ help _ it. This is the only way he feels complete, here, like this, held by his three best friends in the whole world.

John makes soft, wordless, comforting noises. Who he’s trying to make feel better, Freddie genuinely has no idea—Roger’s crying on Freddie’s shoulder, Brian onto the top of his head. Freddie himself is leaking tears and snot all over Roger’s shirt. Oh, Roger will be so  _ cross _ . They can’t have come here for this.

Freddie feels ashamed, he can’t stop his tears and he’s crying so loudly,  _ like a baby _ . Though, he doesn’t want this moment to end, he wants it to last forever. This is so cruel, giving him what he wants the most, for a few minutes, before taking it all away from him. Kashmira will have to deal with more of his tears. She’ll probably get tired of him too. 

He can’t really remember how, because he’s so stuck in his head, but they all end up on the couch and the seats beside it. Roger and John are on both seats, but Brian is sitting next to him on the couch, a foot away from him, too far away from him. He wipes away his tears, he needs to be stronger. 

They’re all watching him, waiting to hear something coming out of his mouth, but his lips are stuck together, the fear of anger and disgust being directed at him keeping him from talking. They should get it over with, tell him to never come again to the flat after he takes the rest of his things. Why make it more painful for him?

He wishes there would be Kashmira by his side again, why did she leave? She should have stayed, she should be there to hold him. He needs her, he needs her by his side. It’s  _ ridiculous,  _ he shouldn’t need someone always by his side. He’s a grown man. Though sometimes he reminds himself of a child. He really hasn’t changed since boarding school. 

“Do you want to explain, why—you know, you left?” John asks carefully. 

Freddie plays with the hanging threads of his socks with trembling fingers. He doesn’t have the courage to look up, to talk. There’s a lump in his throat that brings tears he’s so desperately trying to hide. He can’t start crying again—this is simply ridiculous. They can’t possibly still want him when he’s acting this way. Nobody wants a singer that can’t stop crying for stupid little things like that.

“I—” he manages, and swallows. Oh, he just has to get it out, to force it all out into the open. There’s no hiding from it now. “I knew you would send me away, so I—I left before you could.” Damn, there go the tears again.

“Damn it, Freddie!” Roger bursts out.

“ _ Please, _ Roger,” Freddie says desperately. He wipes at his face with his free hand. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it—”

“Fuck what you want!” Roger says, furious. “We’re talking about this! What do you  _ mean _ , you knew we would  _ send you away? _ What the  _ fuck _ are you talking about?”

Freddie ducks his head, hiding his eyes behind his bangs. He keeps wiping at the tears, trying to stem them with his fingers, but it’s no use. “You know what I mean,” he whispers. “I’m—I’m a screwup, darlings, we all know it, and I’m just h-holding you all back—”

“What?!” Roger says, but after that he seems to be at a loss for words, because he doesn’t go on.

“What do you mean, holding us back?” John asks, much more calmly. Freddie can’t help sneaking a glance at him, and he’s white as a sheet—not as calm as he sounds, then, though Freddie can’t work out why.

“Why are you making me  _ say _ all this?” He physically turns away from all of them, even Brian, who’s sitting rigidly beside him, pulling his knees to his chest to prevent himself from falling completely apart. “Please, just leave. I don’t want to talk.”

“Freddie,” Brian says quietly, suddenly, “is this about what happened at the concert?”

A sob leaps out his mouth, and Freddie flinches at the sound, mortified. Why is this  _ happening _ to him? A part of him, that same childish part that cried and screamed when he was sent away to school, claims that he didn’t do anything to deserve this, that it’s all so unfair.

That little boy didn’t know what was wrong with him yet. Of course he deserves this pain, this suffering. He should just accept it.

“Th-that’s part of it,” he admits, trying again, futilely, to clear his face of tears. “Y-you can already see why I—I’m holding you back. The band back. You sh-should all just g-go on without me. I know th-that’s what you want.”

“ _ How _ do you know that’s what we want?” Roger exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. “Did you ever think to  _ ask _ us, Freddie? Huh?”

Freddie feels sick, hearing Roger sounding like that, sounding angry, makes his heart churn. This is why he left by himself, because he can’t handle seeing them cross with him, he can’t handle the looks, the words. 

He hides his face with his slender fingers, making them wet. “How could you want anything else?” he whispers, his voice rough with the tears. 

He flinches slightly, not expecting it, when a hand falls on his shoulder. It’s Brian’s. “Freddie,” Brian says again. 

(He can’t handle seeing his best friend like this without doing anything. He can’t handle knowing that’s what he thinks of himself.)

“We couldn’t have gotten where we are without you.”

The words cause another sob to shake Freddie’s whole body. He wants to believe it, but he can’t. There’s absolutely no way he ever did anything right. He always fucks up, he  _ always _ does. His existence somehow always ends up ruining  _ something. _

“D-don’t, please don’t,” he says, barely loud enough for any of the boys to hear it. 

Brian’s arms are suddenly around him, there’s goosebumps all over Freddie’s body at the touch. He holds onto him unconsciously, craving his body close to him so badly. His scent is so strong and comforting, Freddie hopes he’ll never discover that he stole one of his shirts. 

He sniffles another time, wiping strongly at his eyes, probably making them even redder and puffier. There’s warmth around him that he never wished more to feel. He feels himself calm down slowly—he doesn’t feel as on edge as before. Though the fact Brian is so close does make his head run wild with other thoughts. 

“He’s right, Freddie,” Deaky says. “We never wanted you to go.”

“If you’d just  _ said _ something,” Roger adds, “I’d have told you how wrong you are. You’re  _ so _ wrong, Freddie—we love you, mate. We’ve been so lost without you the past few days. Not just with the band, but just—everyday, too.”

“We  _ need _ you, Freddie,” Brian says softly.

Freddie shakes his head. He can’t listen. He  _ can’t _ . It will ruin him if it turns out they’re lying—but they don’t seem to be. None of them are really any good at that.

_ Maybe they aren’t lying. _

But they have to be. They  _ have _ to be. They would have sent him away, he  _ knows _ they would have—

“Will you come back with us?” John asks, and his calm has vanished. He sounds as young as he really is—he sounds like the baby of the group, something he normally hates. “Will you come home with us?”

“Please, Freddie,” Roger says. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m going to do without you, mate, I really don’t.” He’s blinking back tears again, not terribly successfully, sniffing and wiping at his face. “ _ Please _ . I’m sorry I yelled at you. Please come home with us.”

“You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to,” Brian suggests. “But then I won’t play guitar, either. Okay? We can quit together.”

“I won’t play drums if you won’t sing,” Roger adds immediately. “There’s no Queen without you, Freddie.”

“I’ll just find a new band,” Deaky says, but then he manages a small smile. “I’m kidding. I’ll put my bass away too, if you guys don’t want to play anymore.”

Freddie’s horrified. “But—you can’t!” he gasps. “Darlings, you’re all so talented, you can’t just give up because of—because of  _ me _ —”

“ _ You’re _ talented, Freddie,” Brian says bluntly. “Like Roger said: if there’s no Freddie Mercury, there’s no Queen. I’m not going to flog a dead horse.” He makes a face at his own words. “Not that  _ anyone _ should flog a horse, dead or not, that’s just cruel.”

“We know you would never flog a horse, Bri,” Roger says. “And you’d stop anyone who tried.” He leans over to touch Freddie’s arm, squeezing it gently. “Will you at least come home with us?”

“You  _ have _ to keep playing,” Freddie tries again. “I’m—I’m terrible, you don’t want me singing for you, I’ll just—I’ll just ruin it for you all.”

“That’s nonsense, Freddie,” John says, firm. “You’re amazing. You’re the best singer I’ve ever heard.” He nods to Brian and Roger. “They’re right. There’s no Queen without you, just like there’s no Queen without Brian or me or that idiot on the drums.”

“Oh, screw you,” Roger says, cheerfully enough. “He is right, though, Freddie.”

“Queen’s the four of us,” Brian says. “It’s nothing without all four of us there, if we can be.”

They seem so  _ certain _ . They really do seem like they want Freddie back, not just in the flat but in the band, like they don’t want anyone else. Like they care about him as much as he cares about them.

“You’re our best mate, Freddie,” Brian adds, earnest, and squeezes Freddie in his arms. “We’ll do anything to get you to come home with us. What do you need us to say?”

Freddie shakes his head. He gets a hand up between himself and Brian—brushing Brian’s chest on the way, not that he means to—to clear his eyes. “You don’t have to say anything,” he croaks. He manages his first smile in the last week—the last few weeks, maybe. The first real one, anyway. “I’ll—I’ll come back, darlings. If you really want me to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, Living_On_My_Own has created some amazing drawings from this fic because, unlike oatrevolution, she is an incredible artist! You can now see Freddie [wearing Brian's shirt and also rocking a really fabulous pair of rainbow boots](https://living-on-my-own-fm.tumblr.com/post/632267656915976192/two-drawings-inspired-by-oatrevolution-and-id).
> 
> Second, you all continue to be amazing readers and we adore you! No writers could ask for better. See you next time, darlings!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie goes back home to the boys.

For a long moment, Papa and Mama just stare—at Freddie, at his packed bags, even at Kash, who’s the only one in the room looking pleased with the entire situation. Freddie has that awful, crawling feeling inside, the one that means he’s embarrassing his entire family, he’s letting them down  _ again _ —but the boys are waiting down the street, ready to take the bus back to the flat with him. Roger keeps texting him, he can feel his phone buzzing in his pocket.

“No,” Papa says finally. “No, Farrokh, I won’t allow it. You promised—”

“Papa—”

“You  _ promised _ that this time would be different, Farrokh!” Papa exclaims, and oh, yes, he is very, very disappointed. Freddie looks to the floor, knotting his hands around his record player.

“I was wrong, Papa.”

“What about the jobs you applied to, Farrokh?” Papa asks dangerously. “Or did you lie about doing that too?”

“Bomi!” Mama exclaims, shocked.

“No, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Farrokh!”

“He really did apply, I heard him,” Kash interjects, coming up earnestly to Freddie’s side. He’s surprised at her boldness in the face of Papa’s anger.

“Stay out of this, Kashmira,” Papa snaps, but Kash holds her ground. She doesn’t shrink away from her spot beside Freddie. He appreciates her strength, her courage.

She gives Freddie the strength to look up, to meet Papa’s angry, confused eyes. Papa just wants the best for him—he just doesn’t understand what  _ best _ is for Freddie. He doesn’t understand Freddie much at all. “I’m going back home, Papa,” he says, voice wavering only slightly, and then only from nerves, not indecision. “I’ll be back to visit when I have time. I’ll be calling all of the businesses I applied to and explaining that I can’t pursue the process further.”

“That’s as much as we can ask, dear,” Mama says, almost imploringly.

Papa throws his hands up into the air. “Fine, then,” he says. “Ruin your life. Go back to the way things were. I should have known that your resolve would crumble.”

Freddie can’t help flinching, but then he feels Kash’s small hand on his arm. He sees her look at him, encouragingly, and he knows what he should say. He feels stronger now than he did mere hours ago, before his friends came for him. “My resolve  _ had _ crumbled,” he says. “It’s strong again now. I’m sorry, Papa, but this is who I am.”

Papa just shakes his head, turning away and storming into the living room. He’ll watch the cricket now to calm down, to find something in the world that makes sense. Something that isn’t Freddie.

Freddie’s phone buzzes again. That’ll be Roger. “I’m sorry, Mama, but I have to go,” he says, voice small. “We’re taking the bus back.”

She steps up to him, kisses his forehead. Her eyes are sad and sorry. “All right,” she says softly. “Take care of yourself, dear.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Kash adds, and grabs his elbow, steering him to the front door. She hugs him on the stoop, awkward around his record player, and steps away, grinning. “Invite me to your next show, okay?”

Freddie promises, and Kashmira waves as he walks down the street, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

(Their parents will be furious for a while, she knows, but she’s too pleased to care. She  _ knew _ he had to be wrong about his friends, and here’s the proof: Freddie back where he belongs. Her brother with a smile on his face again.)

Roger, Deaky, and Brian are waiting around the corner, just as they promised, and Brian even thoughtfully takes the record player from him, carrying it so carefully in his arms. He’s so perfect. Freddie, shifting his bag self-consciously on his shoulder, remembers Brian’s shirt in among the rest of his things and just hopes that Brian never finds out he stole it.

They ride the bus back to their flat, and Brian even finds Freddie’s favorite seats, on the upper deck at the front, and they sit there next to each other, Brian’s shoulder pressing against his in the small seat, and it’s as close to perfect as anything has ever been. Roger and John, sitting behind them, bicker gently about whose turn it is to clean the apartment, and it’s just like nothing ever happened--like he never left, like he never started worrying that they hated him.

“Oh,” John says suddenly, leaning between Freddie and Brian’s shoulders, “remember, we have time at the studio later. You probably won’t have much time to unpack, Freddie, I’m sorry, we’ll have to head straight there.”

“Oh,” Freddie echoes. “Yes, darling, I remember.” He  _ does _ remember, actually—remembers them setting up this session in the terrible days before he left. He’s suddenly nervous, and has to stop himself from slipping down lower in his seat. He didn’t think he would have to sing in front of anyone so soon, he’s not  _ ready _ . They all said that they would never replace him, but will they change their minds when they hear him again? Will they realize that what he said about being a shit vocalist is actually true?

Too soon, they’re at their stop, and walking up the familiar steps to the door to their flat. Roger runs up to the door, joy and relief on his face, and unlocks it with a flourish.

“Here we are!” he says, waving one arm grandly. “Your room is just how you left it, so it’ll need some tidying.” He looks away, then suddenly drags Freddie into a one-armed hug. “We were hoping you’d only be gone for a little while. We missed you so much, Freddie.”

Freddie hugs Roger back, gingerly at first, then with more conviction. Roger’s not pulling away, not acting like it’s weird that Freddie’s so tactile, that he always wants to be held. “I missed you too, Rog.”

It feels strangely calming to be back home. Freddie expected to feel weird, to not feel as welcome in his flat anymore, to feel as if he was too much there, but it’s the exact opposite. And he almost feels stupid for being nervous. 

Though he doesn’t have much time to think about it before his bag is taken from his hands and put on the floor and he’s pushed back out the door. Thankfully, the studio isn’t too far away so they don’t have to pay for bus tickets again. 

Brian engages in small talk with him, he doesn’t mention anything from the past few days and it makes Freddie’s heart feel lighter. He was scared they’d want to talk about it again; he doesn’t like talking about it. He feels better forgetting about it, forgetting everything from the past weeks. 

He just wants to start anew. 

Of course, he knows he can’t just erase all of his fears and insecurities. Frankly, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever overcome them. But he can at least count on the boys to comfort him if they’re getting too strong to be bearable. He knows they’ll do anything so he doesn’t leave again. For now. 

Entering the studio feels weird. It’s not been that long, but it’s different than any other time they’ve come. Freddie’s never felt this  _ nervous _ before. He doesn’t know how to act with the boys, what to say, what to do. 

And it’s Brian  _ (Brian) _ who’s close to him again. There’s still that feeling he can’t ignore. Maybe he’ll notice now, now that they’ll probably all look at him even more closely. He hopes they won’t, that they won’t treat him like a porcelain doll. He hopes they won’t be staring at him all day long, looking at his every move, because then maybe they’ll also realise that they’ve been wrong. 

“Oh Fred, by the way, we’ve done pretty much all the instruments for Now I’m Here. There’s just your vocals to record,” Roger explains. Freddie remembers, with a slight pang, that of course they would have come in while he was gone—they would have had to. They were scheduled to. “Oh and of course there will be the hundreds of changes you’ll want to do, but that’s something else,” he smirks, proud when he hears Freddie laughing slightly. 

It’s even more nerve racking knowing he’s the only one left to work. They’ll  _ all _ be looking at him, listening to him. It always feels a bit better not seeing them react while he’s singing, it’s less distracting. He hopes they won’t stop him in the middle of lyrics, telling him that they now regret their decision. Freddie would never be able to handle something like that. 

“Okay, let’s start then, darlings!” he exclaims, trying to hide how anxious he really is. 

They show him what they’ve done so far, and he barely has anything to say about it, barely anything he wants to change. It does make a very slight lump form in his throat. He tries to make his head shut up, but it’s useless.  _ They don’t really need you _ , it tells him. He hopes one day he’ll be able to believe them when they say they need him. 

Reading back the lyrics makes him realise how much they reflect on the past few days. As if Brian’s been in his head all this time. He stops himself from telling Brian how brilliant his lyrics are, how good he is at writing music.  _ His Hendrix forever.  _ He doesn’t want to act so clingy already. 

Still, he can see them in the recording booth while he’s at the microphone—Roger on his phone, John watching the panel, and Brian scribbling away in his little notebook, the one that contains all of his lyric ideas. It makes him feel better—less like he’s on display. How they know, he has no idea, but it’s the easiest way to fall back in the rhythm of recording.

“Sounds great, Freddie,” Deaky says through the intercom, after a particularly long take. “Do you want to hear it played back?”

Freddie pulls his headphones off, out of breath. He nods. He could use a break.

He joins the boys in the recording booth, and John plays back the recordings. They aren’t bad, really—not as bad as they could be. He’s surprised. He thought he’d sound worse.

“Yeah, Freddie, it sounds amazing,” Brian says, looking up from his notebook. He smiles. “You’ve really captured what I meant with the song.”

“You’re going to prove these idiots online wrong, that’s for sure,” Roger adds, flicking through his phone. He laughs. “ _ God _ , people are dumb.”

Freddie can’t say anything. His stomach clenches, his legs turning watery.

“What are you looking at?” John asks, curious. He leans sideways to look over Roger’s shoulder.

“Our Twitter feed, what else?” Roger tilts his phone so John can see. Freddie can only see a smear of light across the screen, no details. For a moment it’s like it’s not real. “Listen to this one:  _ seriosly with tht name how are u gonna sell any songs losers _ .” He laughs. “I mean, what a philistine, right? He can’t even spell! And he’s going to insult  _ our _ band name?”

John snorts, pointing. “How can you misspell the word  _ that _ ?”

“Right?!” Roger exclaims, and laughs uproariously. “What an idiot!”

Freddie shouldn’t feel so awful. They’re just criticising the band’s name, it’s not a big deal, the boys are laughing about it. But  _ he’s _ the one who chose it.  _ He’s _ the one who changed it. It was a stupid idea. They should have kept the name Smile after all. 

The laugh he’s trying to get out doesn’t emerge, so he ends up with an awkward smile on his face. Hopefully none of them will notice. Then they’ll have to tell him that it’s okay, they want him in the band, the name Queen was a great idea. That’s the kind of thing that’ll tire them. 

Freddie notices Roger’s smile faltering when he passes through another comment. It’s probably about him; he’s so weak that even Roger doesn’t have the guts to say any comments about him anymore. It’s embarrassing now that they know he’s not as strong as he shows them. Roger keeps scrolling before his smile widens again. 

“ _ pretentious twaddle, _ ” he reads out, “ _ ive never heard such poncey music in my life. what is this, the 70s??? _ ” He laughs. “What morons.”

“I don’t think they understand what rock music is,” John says dryly.

Freddie wants to sink through the floor. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes and he absolutely  _ refuses _ to cry, not again, not today—at least, not in front of his friends. “Shall I go make some tea, darlings?” he suggests, trying not to sound too desperate to escape. He edges towards the door. “I’m dying for a cuppa.”

“Ooh, yes, thanks, Fred, that would be lovely,” Roger says, without looking up from his phone.

It’s all the excuse Freddie needs. He slips out the door into the studio proper, ducking down the hall to the little kitchenette. There is an electric kettle in there, but he can’t see it, his eyes are blurring so badly, and he leans against the counter, gripping the edge hard, trying to center himself.

Behind him, the door opens. “Freddie?”

Oh god. It’s Brian. ( _ Brian. _ ) Hastily, Freddie ducks his head, trying to hide his face.

“Hey, Freddie,” Brian says, incredibly gently. His hands come down on Freddie’s shoulders, just softly touching him, and it’s intimate, it’s lovely, it’s horrible. He doesn’t want Brian seeing him like this. Still, he can’t resist when Brian turns him around to face him, or when Brian pulls him into a hug. Brian’s so warm, so tall, so gentle with him. It’s everything Freddie’s ever wanted him to do. “You’re okay. It’s all right. They don’t know you, you know?”

Freddie just shrugs. He raises a hand to his face, clumsily wiping at his overflowing eyes, until he can see Brian at least a little bit better. His face is so  _ close _ .

“If they did know you,” Brian whispers, his long, slender fingers coming to rest on Freddie’s shoulder, brushing the side of his neck, “then…” Freddie sees him swallow. They’re closer than ever, somehow. He can feel Brian’s breath against his lips, and his brain shorts out.

Then Brian’s leaning away again—if he was ever that close in the first place—and smiling awkwardly. “They’d love you as much as we do,” he says. “Rog, Deaky, and I, I mean.” He squeezes Freddie’s shoulder. “Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“Please,” Freddie whispers. 

He’s completely confused as Brian hurries away. Was he about to—to  _ kiss  _ him? No, no it can’t be true at all. Why would Brian want to kiss him? Even  _ if _ he was attracted to men Freddie would be his last choice. Brian wouldn’t want someone like him. 

He needs to stop imagining things like this. His crush is beginning to get out of control. It absolutely needs to stop or the boys will notice and then they really  _ won’t _ want him anymore. Brian wasn’t close like that to kiss him. It’s impossible. 

—But why  _ was _ he so close then? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, we still hate writing horrible fake Twitter comments. They just keep coming up!
> 
> You guys are beyond amazing though! Kudos to you for being so supportive of our ramblings, because we're having tons of fun with this AU. There will be more soon—we just can't stop writing!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try out something new.

The livestream is John’s idea.

“We don’t have a concert scheduled for another three weeks,” he explains to the rest of them over pizza one night a couple of days after Freddie’s return. “But I think we should stay in the public eye, you know? Keep up the momentum. I saw another band do a live concert over Instagram just the other day and they got a _lot_ of turnout, so I really think it could work.”

“Who’d you see?” Roger asks with his mouth full.

“It was Yes,” Deaky says, “but I think they got the idea from someone else. Pink Floyd, maybe.”

“Oh, yeah, then we have to do it,” Roger says immediately. He grabs his beer and gestures with it, decisive. “Prove we’re with the times, right?”

Freddie winces a little but manages to hide it in the slice he’s been nursing since the pizza arrived. He hasn’t been terribly hungry lately.

“How do we let our fans know?” Brian asks, leaning forward with his elbows planted on their tiny, battered table. “Do we send out a tweet?”

“Yeah, hit the big ones, I think,” Deaky confirms. “Twitter, Instagram, the lot. We might even be able to get some press coverage out of it—free advertising, you know.”

Deaky’s always been good at figuring out ways to stretch their money, and from the looks on Roger and Brian’s faces Freddie can tell they’re intrigued by this idea. Freddie isn’t quite so certain—he much prefers a live atmosphere, when he can feel the audience, make that real connection and _know_ whether he has them following him or not—but if Deaky’s right, and this can raise Queen’s awareness level, then surely it’s worth a try?

“When would we do it?” he asks. He sets his crust down on a paper plate, wiping his fingers fastidiously on his napkin. He hates the grease on pizza, how it makes his hands feel. Brian, next to him, turns his head away so his hair blocks his entire view of Freddie, and Freddie’s hyper-aware of the six inches separating their chairs.

He _had_ to have imagined it, he _must_ have—there’s no way Brian would have tried to kiss him. Freddie’s mind was on overdrive after missing him for so long, that’s all. He still has Brian’s shirt stuffed in his bedside table, after all—God knows he can be obsessive, he can see things that aren’t there. He must have dreamt it up, exaggerated how close Brian really was.

But he really had felt so _close_ . Freddie felt his breath on his lips, he _tasted_ it. Could he really have imagined all of that?

He steals a furtive glance at Brian. Brian’s still looking away, focusing on John as he replies.

“End of this week, maybe? On the weekend, you know, when everyone’s off school or work and they can tune in for an hour. It will be a proper concert, or as much of one as we can do through a camera.”

“Where would we set up?” Brian asks. “Here?”

“I don’t know that there’s room here,” Roger says, looking at their tiny living room.

“Well, there might be,” Freddie pipes up. John just looks so earnest about this, so convinced that it will work, and Freddie feels obligated to help in any way he can. “If we push the furniture into our rooms, we might have enough room for your kit and the rest of us.”

“I don’t know.” Roger squints doubtfully. “We’d have to try ahead of time—what d’you think, Bri?”

“I—” Brian looks at Freddie, quickly, and then away again. He’s been strangely skittish since the day at the studio. Maybe _Freddie_ tried to kiss _him_ , and that’s why they were so close. Oh, god, he hopes that’s not what happened—he’s suddenly terrified that Brian is scared of him now. “I agree with Freddie, actually. I think it could work.”

_That’s_ not what Freddie was expecting, and he blinks at Brian uncertainly, not sure how to react. But Brian, when he dares to look at Freddie again, just gives him a small smile, just as heartbreakingly gorgeous as always.

(Brian’s kicking himself for being so weak, for almost giving in and kissing Freddie. He was in _tears_ , he was in no position to say yes or no, and in any case look what he’s done—Freddie’s been strange with him ever since, jumpy and nervous. He’s so scared that he’s ruined their friendship. That he’s ruined everything.

After all, there’s no way someone as amazing as Freddie would want a sad sack like Brian.)

Freddie smiles back, as best he can, but it’s equally small, close-lipped. He aches for Brian to hold him like he did back at the studio, before Freddie probably screwed everything up—again. Before he screwed up whatever chance he might have had with Brian. Not that, he reflects, he had any chance at all.

After all, there’s no way someone as brilliant as Brian would want a fuckup like Freddie.

  
  


It’s so much more terrifying than Freddie thought it would be. At least, when they’re on a stage, there’s people cheering, people clapping. Now there’s an awful silence beside the music they’re making. Oh, how nervous Freddie feels. 

Before they started playing, they took a few minutes to interact with the comments the fans sent. They ignored the few mean ones that passed through. Well, Freddie _tried_ to ignore them like the others, but they’re always at the back of his mind no matter how much he wants them out. 

John mostly did the talking, along with Bri; strangely, he’s the one that’s the best with Instagram. John didn’t seem as shy as he sometimes does when he’s talking to fans. Freddie wishes he could even be that brave. He would get distracted so easily, look at the other comments, get upset when they’d be horrible. He’d be terrible at interacting with the fans like that. The others are better doing it themselves. 

It’s not that it’s hard to get into the music, Freddie always does. The music fills him and makes him feel more at peace. Unfortunately, there’s not much space to walk around, to dance, if you can even call what he does dancing. At least that’s something people can’t criticize now. 

He doesn’t have the courage to get close to Brian like usual. Normally, he’d be turning around him, getting driven by the sound of the pleas of the guitar. He feels nervous stepping closer to him—where does he need to be to not make Brian uncomfortable? He doesn’t want him thinking he’s leading him on. 

Brian wouldn’t push him away, even if he was way too close. He has to believe that.

Another song ends and Freddie realizes what time it is. He’ll have to sing _that_ song, perform all on his own now. Oh, what a nightmare. 

They weren’t supposed to be doing that, but during the few days before the live, Brian managed to finish writing a short little song. It’s lovely, even though Freddie wishes he wouldn’t have to sing alone with practically _no_ instruments. Brian calls it Dear Friends. No matter how few lyrics there are, they all guessed what it’s about. Freddie felt touched when he read them the first time—not that he’d ever show it. 

“Hello, darlings!” he says when he’s finally sat on a chair Deaky’s pulled around, in front of the camera, with the boys sitting at the back, _watching him._ “Before we continue this live with some more rock and roll, we wanted to show you a special song that no one’s ever heard before. So you’re the lucky ones!

“Our dear Brian has only written it recently and we thought it’d be a great opportunity to show a bit of what is coming soon in our most recent album!” he explains, trying to take deep breaths to not completely _panic._

And it’s Brian’s ( _Brian’s)_ song. He really needs to not fuck it up. 

“So here is Dear Friends.”

He takes a last deep breath before bringing the microphone to his mouth.

“ _So dear friends your love is gone_

_Only tears to dwell upon_

_I dare not say as the wind must blow_

_So a love is lost, a love is won_ —” 

The words aren’t even written by him, but they touch each of his heartstrings. Thank god his eyes are closed, or he’d probably be crying already. 

“ _Go to sleep and dream again_

_Soon your hopes will rise and then_

_From all this gloom life can start anew_

_And there'll be no crying soon._ ”

His voice is so raw with the emotion it holds. Freddie doesn’t like how it makes the song sound—he sounds like he doesn’t even know how to sing. Hopefully Brian won’t mention it. 

(Brian is glad he’s far away from the camera, his eyes are probably horribly red. Freddie’s voice singing the words he wrote makes his song a hundred times better than when he’s the one singing it. He’s _so_ talented.)

“And there you are, darlings!” Freddie chirps, forcing his eyes open and the tears back. He can cry about Brian’s lovely ballad later, when he’s alone, when there isn’t a crowd in front of him—never mind that he can’t even see them. “Trust me, there’s plenty more where that came from. Still, shall we annoy our neighbors some more? Let’s take them to an ogre battle!”

The rest of the show passes in a bit of a blur, if Freddie’s honest. They only have an hour, after all, and the remainder of the time is a heaving mass of thrashing guitar and crashing drums as they careen through Ogre Battle, into Liar, and finish with Keep Yourself Alive. Thank God their neighbors on both sides like loud parties as much as anyone, or they’d find themselves with some angry notes pushed under the door—though, with the volume of Brian’s amps, that might well happen anyway.

Still, it’s a fleeting worry, there and gone again as Freddie’s caught up once more in the music, their sound, the harmony of all four of them playing together. He even forgets his nervousness enough to bounce around during the last two numbers, too full of energy to stay still, even if it takes him close to Brian.

And Brian doesn’t flinch away. His eyes are on Freddie and there’s a wide, delighted grin on his face. He’s _happy_.

When this is over, Freddie has a feeling he’s just going to be more confused than ever.

With a last few drum crashes and some wild strumming from the Red Special, the last song wraps up, and suddenly it’s over. Or nearly over, rather—Freddie can still see the little red recording light flashing.

“That’s that for today, darlings!” he says grandly, sketching a dramatic bow to the camera. “We hope you enjoyed yourselves—we loved having you.” Freddie blows a kiss to the unseen audience as, behind him, he feels the others take a bow too. When he turns his head, slightly, he can see that all three of them are grinning.

And with that it is, truly, over. They all wait as John goes to check the camera, and when he gives them a thumb’s up, Roger leaps up behind his drums.

“That was _amazing!_ ” he exclaims, rushing around—somehow not knocking anything over, even though they’re packed in so tightly—to throw his arms around Brian and Freddie, dragging them together. Brian lets out a startled laugh, and Freddie can feel it in his hair, on his face. “Fuck, you guys, we did _awesome!_ ”

“We did, indeed, do _awesome,_ ” Deaky says dryly. He does consent to a fistbump when Roger holds out his hand.

Freddie, tucked against Roger’s side, feels like he might be glowing. It really did go well—this was a good idea. He’s glad they did it. He _needs_ to perform; he’d forgotten, somehow, in the days he was gone, about the rush of it, how invincible he feels up there when he really starts feeling the music, when he loses himself in it. He doesn’t know how he ever thought he could do without this.

And Brian ( _Brian_ ) is smiling at him again, warm and genuine, like whatever happened at the studio was just a dream.

Maybe things will be alright after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the early days, Queen were often compared to Yes. This has often confused oatrevolution, who grew up with Yes. She still has trouble seeing why the music press thought they sounded so similar!
> 
> You guys continue to be fabulous, and we hope you enjoyed this latest chapter (and the ones to come!). We'll see you next time~


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie hates interviews.

If the livestream was Deaky’s idea, the interview is Trident’s.

“There’s a journalist who’s interested in talking to you boys,” their manager explains, a couple of days later, while they’re all packed into the studio. “Apparently that live you did has stirred up some attention and he wants to get to know the band. It’s the perfect marketing opportunity, we’ve already said you’ll do it.”

From his position hunched over the console, Freddie can see Deaky and Brian exchange glances out of the corner of his eye.

“Who’s the journalist?” Brian asks.

“Don’t remember his name,” their manager says blithely. “But he’s with  _ NME _ . This is just the exposure Queen needs, get some name recognition—you’re grassroots right now, boys, there’s no denying it.”

What he means is that Trident wants a return on their investment, and they all know it.

“Can we have a list of questions ahead of time?” Deaky asks.

“I’ll check and see.” Their manager does not sound all that interested, but then it’s possible he wasn’t really listening to Deaky in the first place; he’s pulled his phone out of his pocket and he’s answering an apparently urgent text, judging by his furrowed brows.

God, what a prick. This Trident deal has been the stupidest decision they’ve ever made, and even John hasn’t been able to figure out how to get them out of it yet.

Still, later, when they’re back at the flat and discussing the idea amongst themselves, it starts to not seem so bad.

“Well, the bastard’s right, isn’t he?” Roger points out. He’s slung over their shitty couch with the stuffing coming out, half-drunk beer in one hand. “It is free publicity. We could hardly do better.”

“ _ You _ know how the press are,” Brian says darkly. “If only we could properly prepare beforehand—”

“Won’t stop them from doing a hatchet job if they’ve a mind to, will it?” John says. “No, I think Roger’s right. We have to approach this pragmatically. What are we going to do, turn him down? We can’t  _ afford _ to say no, and anyway Trident’s already said yes for us.”

Freddie turns his own beer nervously in his hands, the aluminum can cold and damp against his palms. He  _ hates _ interviews, and the others all know it, but he can’t be the weak link, not again. They’ve all worked so hard and he  _ can’t _ be the one to hold them back, he just  _ can’t _ .

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right, darlings?” he says, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels. Hoping that they won’t back out because of  _ him _ . “What’s the worst he can do?”

“I just wish we knew his name,” Brian mutters. “Then we could at least look him up.” He’s anxious again, twirling his phone on the table, the warm smile from the last few days gone. Freddie had thought, for a little bit in there, that maybe he hadn’t completely ruined things between them after all, but now every time Brian looks at him he seems tense again—tense and nervous.

(Unlike Freddie, Brian has kept up with Twitter and Instagram posts since the live, and he knows the rude comments haven’t stopped—especially the ones about Freddie. If anything, they’ve only increased, perhaps as the trolls realized just how many of them there are. He can fight them all he wants but it’s like trying to stop the leaks in a dam with just one finger. He just wants to know if the man from  _ New Music Express _ is legitimate or a hack out to make his name, and it’s impossible to find out.)

“ _ You _ try pestering Trident about it, then, Bri,” Deaky sighs. “I’m not getting much of a response.”

In the end, despite Freddie’s nerves and whatever reservations Brian seems to be holding, the four of them agree to go through with the interview. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up—Queen’s a young band, still new, and they have another album coming up that they can talk about. It would be stupid in the extreme to turn down something like this.

So, two days later, they all ride down to Trident’s offices to meet the journalist—whoever he turns out to be.

He’s already there when they arrive, waiting for them in the conference room as their manager ushers them inside, and Freddie’s stomach is already a mess of nerves. He couldn’t eat anything for breakfast this morning, he was so anxious; he would have just thrown it up. When they sit, Freddie flanked by Roger and Brian, he wishes with all his heart that the interview was already over, and they could be on their way home again.

The journalist himself  _ looks _ nice enough, though Freddie has learned that that doesn’t count for much in that line of work. He’s spoken too freely to other writers who looked nice enough and been bitten for it, badly. This time, he vows, he’ll keep his mouth shut unless he absolutely has to speak.

Their manager introduces everyone—Freddie immediately forgets the journalist’s name—and then the man places his phone on the table.

“Do you mind if I record this? For my notes?”

“Not at all,” John replies, coolly. They had decided ahead of time that he would handle all the rules for this engagement. “But if we ask you to turn it off, then you  _ will _ turn it off.”

“Of course,” the journalist says smoothly. He smiles. “Now, just for my readers who may not be so familiar with your work, would you all mind introducing yourselves? Tell me a little bit about yourself, what your role is in the band, that sort of thing?”

John, since he spoke before, goes first again, and calmly relates a (very short) version of his personal history: where he was born and when, how he met up with the others, and his instrument of choice, the bass guitar. From there, the question passes to Roger, who speaks for much longer, and tells the funny story of how he met Brian, who didn’t know that it was possible to tune drums. Brian picks it up next, and talks for a bit about building the Red Special, a soft smile on his face and light in his eyes.

And then, horribly, it’s Freddie’s turn.

He needs to man up, it’s only a few words, presenting himself. That’s all he has to do. 

“Hi, my name’s Freddie Mercury, I’m 28.” Oh god, he’s 28 already, isn’t the late 20s the peak of someone’s career usually? The boys are younger than him, it doesn't really matter. Freddie seems younger with how much of a child he sometimes acts like. “And I’m the lead singer of Queen and I also play the piano for a few of our songs.” 

At least that part is done. It wasn’t that bad. He should stop being so nervous about everything, the boys probably think of this interview as a talk with anyone else. Freddie’s the only one so worked up, as always. 

He wishes he could disappear in the hard couch they’re sitting on. The pressure in his chest doesn’t go away, he’s so nervous. Nervous of saying the wrong thing, of ruining a great interview for the band. And Brian ( _ Brian _ ) is so close it makes it even worse. 

Their arms are touching, sending small butterflies flying to Freddie’s stomach. He tries to pull his arm even closer to himself, scared Brian will be uncomfortable having him so close they’re touching. He probably already thinks Freddie is gonna jump on him at any moment. What a fool he is, he should just stop touching any of them, they’ll all think he’s a creep. 

John answers a question that Freddie doesn’t have time to catch—he’s thinking about Brian’s elbow touching his waist so lightly. He needs to listen or else he’ll miss it when there’s a question for him. That’d be embarrassing. 

“How do you guys work in the studio? Are there loads of fights or often a quick consensus for the songs you’re recording?” the journalist asks. He still doesn’t look  _ dangerous _ or whatever Brian was worried about, he’s just doing his job politely, correctly. 

It’s Brian that decides to answer this question. 

“It does depend on the song. We’ve had songs that we all loved from the first lyrics to the last thing we recorded. But we do fight a lot, ‘cause it’s hard to all have the same opinion. We have different styles, different visions of what works, what doesn’t.”

Freddie finds himself staring at Brian while he talks, looking at how his mouth moves with the words, how his eyebrows move, how his eyes shine. He looks incredibly beautiful. Thank god Brian is talking or else Freddie would look absolutely crazy. 

“We come from different places, different cultures, we have very different educations. All those things do have an influence on our writing and that makes it hard to reach a consensus, but we very often end up with all of us happy about the songs.”

The man looks satisfied with Brian’s answer, and reaches out to pick up his phone, tapping at the screen. He’s looking for something, maybe.

“Now, Queen did a livestream on Instagram just the other day, and you boys got quite the response,” he starts. “I took note of some of the comments that you received while you were playing, and I was wondering if you could speak a bit about them, Freddie?” His eyes turn to Freddie and seem to stare into his soul. Freddie feels slightly sick, as if the man can read him from one look, his stomach dropping to his toes. “What do you say to people who call you a 'poser' or a ‘conceited poof'?” he asks, a spark of pride in his voice. Filled with glee that he’s gotten there first. 

Oh no, this is exactly what he feared, what he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle—what can he even say to that? He opens his mouth to talk, but there’s no word coming out, he can’t talk—he  _ can’t  _ talk. And now he feels like crying. 

He’s ruining something for the boys again. The interview will probably be over if he starts crying, and he really feels like crying. “I—” he tries to speak but it’s not coming out, he’s absolutely petrified. Roger would have laughed if that question was asked to him. He would have told the journalists that they can go fuck themselves. Why can’t Freddie be like that? Why does he  _ have _ to always be so emotional?

His trembling hand brushes against Brian’s leg. He’s watching him. Oh god, they’re all watching him, they’re all watching him make a fool out of himself. His chest hurts so bad, is he even breathing at this point? Probably not, how could he breathe right now?

Oh god, he can’t  _ do _ this—

“Fuck you,” Roger growls, leaning forward suddenly. His eyes are fixed on the journalist’s face, alight with anger. “You think you can just bring us here to ask questions like that?  _ Fuck _ you!”

“Turn that off,” Deaky says sharply, pointing to the journalist’s phone, and Freddie can’t  _ take _ it anymore. He’s ruined everything.

Quickly, clumsily, he lurches to his feet, stumbling past Brian’s long legs and out the door. Their manager is trying to say something over Roger and Deaky’s raised voices, he can hear it even after the door closes, even when he’s down the hallway. He grabs at the wall; he’s so dizzy he can hardly stand up. He can’t  _ breathe _ . His eyes are burning.

“Freddie?” It’s Brian. (Oh god,  _ Brian. _ ) He doesn’t have the strength to flee from him, to run away from Brian’s hurried steps across the carpet as he approaches, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t know how Brian can stand to touch him right now. “Hey, Freddie, it’s—it’s—”

(And he stops. Because it  _ isn’t _ all right. They can both see that. Freddie’s crying again, alone with Brian, and he’s sure he’ll just let him down. He has to do better this time. He won’t leave him to cry on his own, he  _ refuses _ to.)

“I’m sorry, oh, I’m so sorry, Brian,” he says with both hands on his mouth, he’s so ashamed of himself. Could he be any weaker than he is right now? How can they even want him in the band?

“Oh, Freddie,” Brian says, and turns Freddie to face him. Freddie, unresisting, lets him, because it’s too late. Nothing really matters, not anymore. “ _ Please _ don’t listen to those assholes,” Brian says, almost desperately, peering into his eyes with something that looks like conviction. His voice is fierce and passionate as he goes on: “They’re wrong about you, Freddie. They’re  _ wrong _ , and they’re cruel, and they’re vile.  _ Please _ don’t let them get to you, I can’t stand it. They don’t even know you. If they did, they would love you just like I do.”

For a long moment, there’s complete, perfect silence. Freddie stares up at Brian, blinking, the tears clearing from his eyes, and Brian’s gone  _ white _ .

Freddie whispers, “ _ What? _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NME, of course, ran the "Is This Man a Prat?" story, so they were the natural choice to interview the boys about nasty internet comments.
> 
> You all continue to be fabulous, and we love you! We hope you continue to enjoy, and we will see you next time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things that shouldn't be said are said.

Freddie’s brain stalls for what feels like an eternity, all while Brian looks more and more uncomfortable in front of him.

Love? _Love?_

But surely—Brian can’t mean—not like _that_ —

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

“You—you mean,” Freddie says, cautiously. “You mean you love me as a friend, right?”

Brian’s face does something complicated, but finally, painfully, he smiles. Oh god, he’s horrified that Freddie’s brain even _went there_ , that’s what’s going on. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, that’s… that’s what I meant.” He clears his throat. “Roger, Deaky, and I, we all love you, Freddie.”

Yeah. That’s right. That’s what Freddie thought. There’s no way Brian would mean _love_ -love, not with someone like him. He’s getting carried away again, letting his crush lead him on, and he’ll just end up destroying their friendship, he _knows_ he will. It’s happened before.

“You do _know_ that, right, Freddie?” Brian asks anxiously. He tries to catch Freddie’s eye but Freddie’s on the verge of another swell of tears and he doesn’t want Brian to see, doesn’t want him to know what this horrible misunderstanding is doing to him. “That we love you? All of us, Rog and Deaks and I, you know.”

“Of course,” Freddie whispers through a throat that’s fast constricting. He won’t be able to speak for much longer. “Of course I know. Do—do you mind if I—?” He points to the restroom, just down the hall, with a trembling fingertip. He’s going to fall apart any second, he just needs to get _away_.

“Oh.” Brian slowly lets go of him. Steps back, puts his hands awkwardly in his pockets. “Sorry. Um, yeah, of course, go ahead.”

(And as Freddie rushes off, he’s almost glad. Because he’s on the edge of tears himself, and sinking under awful, black, crushing disappointment.

Brian didn’t mean to say it, but he _did_ know what would happen if he did. Freddie doesn’t want him like that, and now it’s awkward, and he’s ruined everything.)

Trying to hurry as quickly as possible to the bathroom, but not too quickly to be suspicious is hard. Especially when Freddie feels like he’s gonna explode, explode into a million tears. 

When the door is closed after him, it’s not a door that’s supposed to be locked since it’s _public_ toilets, but he hopes nobody will find it suspicious if it is, he lets himself go. He’s so fucking stupid. Why does he even get hopes like that when he knows that _nobody_ wants him?

But Brian’s smile seemed so genuine, and he looked at Freddie like he was his whole world, how could he not believe it for a second? It doesn’t matter anyone, Brian said it, he loves him as a friend. Just like he loves Roger and John, probably less than he loves Roger and John. 

He shouldn’t have put mascara and eyeliner on, it’s all down his face now, why did he think Brian could love him when he looks such a mess? He’ll have to fix it, thank god he always brings them with him in his bag. He can’t do it yet though, because he’s _still_ crying. When is he going to stop? 

He can’t just get out of here. He absolutely can’t. The boys will be waiting for him, they’ll probably be mad. Or maybe, since they’re so incredibly kind, they’ll say nothing, act as if nothing happened, but they’ll think about how much they hate him. It’s worse than being told right to his face. He can’t walk out of the restroom. 

He has to though. What will they think of him if he doesn’t come back? They’ll get annoyed he’s taking so much time, time he shouldn’t even need since none of the interview was that bad, he’s just always over sensitive. Papa is right, he always is too much. Well, he’s never said that, but it’s clearly what he thinks. 

Taking a deep breath, Freddie grabs a handful of paper towels and gets them wet in the sink, scrubbing at his makeup. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. He _has_ to get out there, go back to the boys—apologize to Roger and John, too, since he ruined this for everyone. God, what’s he even supposed to say? _Sorry I’m such a fuckup?_ They didn’t like it when he said that last time, but it’s the truth, isn’t it?

Sniffing, he carefully reapplies the eyeliner and mascara, and focusing on his makeup actually helps him calm down a little bit. Maybe it’s because he can’t really think of anything else when his hands are trembling and he’s trying to create a straight line or avoid poking himself in the eye with the mascara wand. When he’s done, he slips the little tubes back in his pocket and studies his own reflection.

He’s the same as ever, really—bucktoothed, red-eyed, swollen from tears. Ugly. But the makeup helps, maybe. Just a little. At least it’s _something_.

Before he can start crying again—how he wishes he could _stop_ —he unlocks the door and yanks it open, and standing on the other side, foot tapping impatiently, is their manager.

“Oh!” Freddie yelps, leaping back a step. His heart hammers in his throat. “Shit! Darling, you startled me.”

“What are you playing at?” their manager asks without preamble. He’s looking at him critically, no doubt taking in the bloodshot eyes, the reapplied makeup. All the signs that Freddie’s been sobbing in a public toilet. _Again_.

Freddie wants to shut the door on the man, but he _can’t_ . This is their _manager_ , and they still need him—without him, there’s no third album. There’s _nothing_.

“I-I’m not _playing_ at anything,” he stammers. “I just—I needed a break—”

“Don’t you understand how much of a coup this was?” their manager demands. He puts his hands on his hips, glaring, and Freddie shrinks back. “The free publicity, a chance to get your name out there—but no, _Mr. Mercury_ can’t handle one tough question.”

Freddie doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“Your mates have erased the recording, you know that?” the man goes on, and he’s truly raging now. “They won’t consent to the article. What is _wrong_ with you? How many journalists are going to want to talk to you if you keep pulling shit like this and then refusing to let them write their stories? Huh? None, that’s how many!”

“I-I’m sorry, darling, I really am,” Freddie tries desperately. Oh, he _hates_ being yelled at. He wants to shut the bathroom door and cover his ears. He wants to be back _home_ , hiding in his room.

“ _Sorry_ isn’t good enough,” their manager fumes. What’s the _point_ of saying sorry, Freddie wonders frantically, if it’s never good enough? If it never gets him anywhere? “ _Christ_. I need a smoke. Just get out of my sight, would you?” He storms off down the hallway, slamming doors behind himself as he heads out of the building. Freddie can hear them.

Pressing his fingertips to his face to hold back new tears, Freddie goes back to the conference room, where the other three are waiting. The journalist, mercifully, has gone.

“We threw the bastard out,” Roger says, rushing to his side to hug him. Freddie wants to melt into him, cry into his shoulder, but barely manages to restrain himself. No, he has to be careful—he’s already wrecked his friendship with Brian. He couldn’t bear it if the same thing happened with Roger or Deaky too.

“Deleted his recordings as well,” John adds. He’s still sitting in the small armchair beside the couch, and he looks a little tense. “He might still be able to construct _some_ kind of article, but it’ll be without our permission.”

“He doesn’t seem that stupid,” Brian mumbles. He glances at Roger and Freddie then ducks his head, his hair covering his face.

“Let’s just go,” Roger says bracingly, squeezing Freddie gently. “We can worry about that asshole later, if it becomes an issue. I’ll punch his lights out, believe me.”

“Oh, we believe you,” John says. The ghost of a smile appears for a second before it’s gone again.

They ride the bus back to the flat, and Roger sits beside Freddie in the first seat on the top deck, not Brian. It’s horrible, it twists in Freddie’s chest, but he can’t say anything. He can’t imagine having to explain to the others what happened, how stupid and foolish he’s been. Brian’s not even _looking_ at him much, and when he does, he looks awkward and pained.

(Brian won’t force his affection on Freddie. It’s obvious that he’s ruined things—Freddie won’t look at him, and when he does, he’s almost in tears. Brian is making him _cry_.

God, if only he’d kept his mouth shut, then Freddie wouldn’t be so upset. He wouldn’t feel so bad about turning Brian down, because he’s a sweet person and he always feels bad when he hurts someone, even accidentally. And Brian _is_ hurt, but more than that, he’s sick at himself, at how such a simple thing as trying to comfort Freddie always turns so wrong in his hands.

Freddie always knows the right thing to say. Brian never does.)

Back home, Freddie retreats immediately to his bedroom, sitting down on his narrow bed. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

Roger does come in after a few minutes, asking him if he’d like to play Scrabble with them, to order take out, eat dinner together. Distract themselves from all the drama. He doesn’t say that, but it’s clear that it’s what he’s implying. Freddie declines the offer with a smile, a _fake_ smile. He tells Roger he’ll write lyrics, that he’ll sleep, because he’s tired. He just doesn’t think he needs to be there. They’re all fine without him, no matter what they say. 

So Roger walks away and joins John and Brian. 

Freddie doesn’t write lyrics, doesn’t sleep. There’s like a cloud around him, so big, covering him in sadness like rain would. If Brian wanted him, he would be his umbrella. There’s no reason thinking about it because he doesn’t anyway. He has no umbrella or shelter to hide under until it stops raining. 

He thinks about texting Kashmira, she’ll comfort him, she’ll understand! But, will she even want to talk to him? She probably has homework, better things to do than talk to him, she can’t spend her whole life comforting her big brother, especially when it should be the _other_ way around. 

They’re laughing in the other room, they don’t need him. They don’t need him at all. Why did he believe them when they told him they did? They don’t need him! They don’t need his never ending tears, they don’t need his problems, they don’t need to deal with such a mess, such a _fuckup._

And he’s crying again, again and again and again. What is wrong with him?! It’s always been this way, it’s not new, it’s not like people ever wanted him, it’s not like he’s ever felt wanted, _needed_ , before. He shouldn’t be sad about it, he doesn’t know how else having friends can feel. He’s never known anything else than what is happening right now. 

It feels as if their laughter is louder, like they are taunting him, reminding him of what he _already_ knows. Trying to wipe away tears that don’t really ever go away, he takes his phone with his wet hands, clicking it open. A few drops of water fall on the screen. Maybe he should consider putting Instagram and Twitter back in his phone again. It’s not like it can make things any worse, and maybe then he’ll be prepared.

Yeah, right. Dream on, darling.

He’s not hungry, not even when he thinks the boys probably ordered some Japanese food, which is always his favorite; he feels sick, as if he could actually throw up. Maybe it’s the nerves, maybe it’s the tears. He probably won’t eat at all tonight, but hopefully no one will notice. There’s not much chance they will anyway. 

When the phone screen turns black again, he sees more black streaks on his cheeks in the reflection. He didn’t even fix it all that long ago and it’s already ruined again, just like everything else he touches. Their manager told him himself, essentially said to his face that he’s holding Queen back. He wipes away at his eyes uselessly again. 

He really hates himself. 

(In the other room, forcing himself to laugh, Brian’s thoughts are, as ever, with Freddie. With his best friend, his love. With the friend who will probably never look at him the same way again.

He really hates himself.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! We can't believe we're on chapter thirteen already. We're in the home stretch now!
> 
> Thank you all for continuing to be so awesome and supportive. We're really having fun with this, and we're so glad that you guys are enjoying our ramblings. Lots of love to all of you!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie reinstalls his social media apps. There are some unforeseen consequences.

He does end up reinstalling Twitter and Instagram. As an exercise in self-flagellation, it’s quite a good one.

There are, Freddie supposes, nice comments buried in the mass of hate on his page, but they’re so easy to lose. He can’t actually remember what any of them say. The only things swimming in front of his burning eyes are the horrible ones, the words that dig at his tenderest parts, picking him open. Feasting on him for the world to see, until there’s nothing left but an empty shell.

_ at least if he’s run away we don’t have to listen to that screeching voice lol _

_ Do you think he’s gone because he’s crying over hurt feelings or because he’s realized how crap he is? _

_ “pop star” my ass, find a new job, mate _

_ If you can’t handle a few hecklers, you don’t belong in the industry _

_ so was the “coming out” thing a desperate grab for attention or what??? _

What’s worse—as if it could get worse—is that other people have replied to the original trolls, creating an endless warren of comments that he can hardly bear to look at. Why is he so  _ wrong? _ How is it that people can tell at a glance that there’s something not right with him, something missing or broken—all the things he tries so desperately to hide?

His tears have run dry. That, at least, is some relief, though it doesn’t make the hurt inside feel any better. That’s all he is, these days: pain in a person-shaped form.

He’s moving on autopilot now, clicking on the comments to expand the threads. It’s like he has to know every horrible thing that’s been said. Maybe then—just maybe—he’ll have words to put to why his father is so disappointed in him, and his mother so sad for him, and so many former friends just that—former, and laughingly mocking.

_ lol who would be desperate enough to want someone with those teeth _

_ lmao right?? dude looks like a donkey _

_ I think he’s the reason they invented braces tbh _

_ How could you say something like that?! Freddie’s gorgeous just the way he is. _

_ *cheers* You tell them, honey! Seconded, he’s lovely! _

_ Girls desperate for a guy who’ll never give them the time of day. typical _

_ Oh FUCK OFF, you misogynistic, homophobic prick _

_ Seconded. For the record, I find all of Freddie extremely attractive, and that includes his teeth. Keep posting shit like this and I’ll report you. -Bri _

_ Wow. Didn’t know there really were guys that desperate to stick their di _ —

Wait.

Freddie scrolls back up the thread. He swears his heart has stopped. He rereads one comment, very carefully, three more times—the one signed just like Brian always signs his comments. He always acts like he’s writing a miniature letter, it’s one of the things Freddie loves about him, and here it is—or someone pretending to be him.

But that  _ looks _ like Brian’s badger icon. Who else would use a picture of a badger for their official account, for Christ’s sake? It’s probably why nobody really knows this “Bri” is actually  _ Freddie’s _ Bri—not that he’s Freddie’s anything.

Well, even that’s not strictly true. Now that he’s looking for it, Freddie can see that Brian has responded to most of the awful comments, telling their authors off and threatening to report them. Freddie’s never opened up the threads before; he hasn’t seen this until just now. But Brian’s  _ everywhere _ . Defending Freddie, for some reason.

He has to ask. Roger and Deaky sometimes spar with rude commenters, but this is a whole new level.

Quietly, Freddie pads to Brian’s room. It’s still early, dawn light just starting to sneak through the windows, but Brian will be up—he hasn’t been sleeping so well lately. Freddie’s noticed the dark circles under his eyes but he’s been too afraid to say anything.

He knocks on the door, and sure enough, a moment later, Brian opens it. He seems surprised to see Freddie standing there, and he rocks back on his heels. Trying to get away, probably. No, Freddie  _ has _ to be misinterpreting this, but—he needs to know.

“I saw this,” Freddie says without preamble, shoving his phone at Brian. When Brian takes it, looking confused, their fingers brush just slightly. “You don’t—you don’t have to defend me, Brian, darling.”

Brian stares down at his phone. “Oh,” is all he says. He hesitates for a long, unbearable moment, then adds, “I’m sorry, but I just—can’t stand what they say about you.”

“I can handle myself,” Freddie says, which is such a blatant lie that neither of them bothers to acknowledge it.

“I  _ need _ to tell them off, Freddie.” Brian looks at him, eyes pleading. “Please, will you just… let me? I can’t just sit by and do nothing.”

“Why not?” Freddie asks, the words jumping out before he can stop them. He tries to backpedal: “I mean, it’s not your problem, dear.”

“Of  _ course _ it’s my problem,” Brian says, suddenly fierce. “They’re insulting  _ you _ .” He glances down at Freddie’s phone, cradled in his hands, and takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t want to hear it from me,” he says, giving the phone back, “but I meant every word I wrote there.”

Freddie stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

Brian hesitates, then takes Freddie’s free hand, the one not holding his phone. His touch is so warm, so gentle. Freddie isn’t sure his brain or his heart are actually working.  _ Savor this, you’ll never get it again. _

“I really do think you’re extremely attractive,” Brian says, smiling nervously. “You shouldn’t be so down on yourself, Freddie. You’re—you’re gorgeous. Not just outside, but inside, too. You’re an amazing, unique person.”

The words bring the cursed tears to Freddie’s eyes. But for once, it’s not because of a deep sadness. Looking at Brian, while he says words nobody’s ever said to him before, brings a lump to his throat. He  _ can’t  _ believe his best friend is saying things like that to him; it would destroy him to be mistaken, much as he wants to believe him.

Brian’s hand in his makes him nervous, he’s probably all sweaty and maybe Brian will take it all back, tell him he didn’t mean it, that it was a joke. If Brian ends up telling him that, he’ll certainly run away and never ever come back again. If Brian pulls his hand away too quickly, he’ll probably really start crying. 

“I really love you, Freddie,” Brian says, and there’s no tremble in his voice, no hesitation. He looks as if he doesn’t doubt it for a second. “And not as a best friend only.”

Instead of feeling his heart stop, Freddie thinks it must be going a hundred miles a minute. He could have a heart attack at this rate. Brian’s hand in his makes so much  _ sense _ . As if it’s supposed to be there, even if Freddie  _ can’t  _ believe any of the words Brian just said to him. It just can’t be real. 

“I—” Freddie tries to talk, but words are stuck in his throat. He wants to say them out loud so bad, but the fear of rejection fills him again. He can’t talk, can’t get any words out. What if Brian doesn’t mean it?

(Brian withdraws slightly, letting go of Freddie’s hand slowly. He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Maybe this was a mistake--again. He’s always making mistakes.)

“You don’t need to say anything, Fred. I understand if you don’t like me that way and I promise I’ll do my best to not make you uncomfortable,” Brian explains, and he sounds formal, almost stilted, like he’s reading from a pre-written script.

He speaks so softly, he talks as if every word he says is important. He really does talk well. But he’s not saying what he should be saying—what Freddie wants, needs him to say—because Freddie is so scared that he can’t tell him how much he loves him too. This has to all be some elaborate joke—things like this don’t  _ happen _ to Freddie.

When Brian takes a step back, not looking at him, ready to close the door in Freddie’s face, Freddie grabs his arm, hopefully not too roughly, and keeps him from going away. He can’t  _ leave _ , or else Freddie will never gather enough courage to tell him how much he loves him. If he leaves, Freddie will be alone, with nobody else wanting him. This is his only chance, he can’t waste it, even if the inevitable rejection will sting harder than anything else could. He squeezes his eyes shut, like not looking will make it easier, and just blurts it out:

“I-I like—I love you too.”

Oh god, can he even breathe? No, he can’t breathe, can’t open his closed eyes. Especially when it’s Brian ( _ Brian! _ ) whose lips are suddenly on his. Oh my god, he’s  _ kissing  _ him. How could he ever breathe? Does he even  _ need _ to breathe? Is breathing important? He suddenly can’t remember.

Brian’s hands are warm against his neck and his cheek. Freddie can smell him better than he ever could before, and he can’t help but think about Brian kissing him while Freddie’s wearing Brian’s shirt, the one he still has hidden away. He’s probably already too much—Brian must be only trying out new things, yes, that’s it, that makes sense. Freddie is likely just an  _ experiment _ , someone to use to find out if he really likes men. Honestly, though, Freddie thinks Brian could have found a better man for that—but if he had, he wouldn’t know what it’s like to kiss him. He wouldn’t have this memory to treasure.

Brian’s lips are soft, probably because of how often he bites them out of nervousness. He tastes like a mix of sugar, and—morning breath? To be fair, Brian woke up not long ago, so it’s not his fault—it’s Freddie’s for knocking on his door before he had a chance to sneak into their one bathroom to brush his teeth. Freddie almost bursts into hysterical laughter, because he would have never imagined thinking of Brian’s morning breath while Brian is kissing him (him! Freddie!). 

Freddie couldn’t be less bothered by it than he is. 

He finally puts his hands, which have just been hanging there uselessly, on Brian’s waist. He’s warm and his pyjama top is soft and well-worn under his palms. Freddie just wants to get closer to him, hide in his neck and never leave. Oh god, he’s already so clingy, how long can Brian possibly handle him? This will be over so quickly, before Freddie’s gotten more than a taste.

Brian pulls back, and Freddie very nearly panics, but it’s only so he can look into Freddie’s eyes. “Is this okay?” he asks, and he’s so cautious and sweet, like he really cares if Freddie wants this.

Freddie nods vehemently. “Yes,” he manages. “Yes, it’s okay.”

He doesn’t really care if he’s just an experiment. He’ll take it if it means he gets more of Brian, even if just for a little while.

Brian kisses him again, just chastely, and rests their foreheads together. His curls are  _ everywhere _ and he’s unbelievably gorgeous, rumpled, his bare feet peeking out from beneath his pyjama bottoms and his lips red from kissing—kissing  _ Freddie _ . “I thought you didn’t want this,” he says, so quietly.

Freddie gapes at him. “ _ What? _ ” His hands tighten on Brian’s waist. “Whatever gave you  _ that _ idea, darling? I thought—I thought  _ you _ didn’t want this!”

Suddenly, Brian laughs, and he pulls Freddie in for a hug, tucking him nice and safe under his chin. “Freddie, you have  _ no _ idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Kiss a man, Freddie presumes. It only makes sense.

“I thought it was obvious how much I wanted you,” Brian admits. “I thought you were trying to let me down gently, or something. You were acting so  _ weird _ .”

“Because—” Freddie’s head is spinning. “Because I thought  _ you _ knew  _ I _ liked you and you were uncomfortable about it!”

“Never,” Brian says heatedly. He tilts Freddie’s face towards him and kisses him again, more deeply this time. He’s  _ good _ at this, just like Freddie always hoped he would be. “Never, Freddie. God, we’re such idiots. I should have said something sooner. I love you.” He presses kisses all over his face, mouth lingering. “I’ve been in love with you for  _ so long _ .”

Freddie doesn’t say anything, but he does hold Brian tight. He can’t quite believe it—he  _ wants _ to believe it, but he falls quick and hard, he knows he does, and losing Brian will be worse than anything he’s experienced before. Because it’s  _ Brian _ .

Brian leans away, catching his eye. “You do believe me, right?” he asks. One hand comes up to stroke the line of Freddie’s cheekbone. “That I love you?”

“Of course I believe you, darling,” Freddie says, but even he can hear the false note in his voice.

Brian bites his lip—his lovely, kissable lower lip, and god, Freddie has  _ tasted _ that lip—and then says, determined, “Then I’ll just have to tell you every day until you  _ do _ believe me.”

“Darling,” Freddie whispers, voice strangled.

“I mean it,” Brian insists. “I love you, Freddie. I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.” He squeezes Freddie gently in his arms. He’s surrounded by Brian, enveloped by him.

Freddie gives in and hides his face in Brian’s shoulder. He’s lost the battle against the tears, but he doesn’t hurt anymore. There’s no more pain. There’s only warmth, and Brian, and what might be love.

“I love you too, Brian,” he says, just into the space between them. For Brian only, hoping that this small gift won’t be turned down or thrown away, like it has been so many times before.

But he can feel Brian smile against his forehead, wide and genuine. “Always, sweetheart,” he says. “I promise.”

This time, emboldened by such sweet words, Freddie pulls Brian down to him. Their lips meet, and morning breath or not, it’s the most perfect kiss Freddie’s ever had. He’s so absorbed by it— _ they’re _ so absorbed—that he doesn’t notice another bedroom door opening down the hall.

“Hey guys,” John says as he shuffles by, flat and uninterested, like the sight of two of his bandmates/roommates making out in a doorway isn’t anything new or unexpected. And just like that, he’s stolen the only bathroom, locking the door behind himself. He’ll get all the hot water, clever bastard.

Freddie and Brian stare after him, and then look at each other. Brian’s bright red, and Freddie’s sure he can’t be any better.

“Let’s take this inside,” Brian says hastily, and he tugs Freddie inside his room, shutting the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank goodness for those old comment threads, right?
> 
> As always, you have all been completely fabulous and the best readers any writers could ask for. We hope you enjoyed and that you'll finish this journey with us!
> 
> One more chapter to go! See you all next time~


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends as it began.
> 
> (Or, the beginning of something new.)

“Did you really think we’d be better off without you?” Brian asks one day out of the blue.

They’re lying crammed together on Brian’s bed—fully clothed, nothing like  _ that _ has happened yet. It’s just cuddling, Freddie laying half on top of Brian with Brian’s long arms around him, holding him close. He’s never had anything so good, and it’s only been a week—a week that feels so bright, so warm, even though the weather’s been horrid and the studio canceled one of their recording times.

He’s found his umbrella, his shelter from the storms. He’ll hold onto it for as long as he can, just to savor the warmth.

Freddie shifts slightly now. He doesn’t really want to discuss this—he’d rather it stayed buried in the past, gathering dust—but he’s very comfortable and lazy with it. Somehow, it doesn’t seem so awful, talking to Brian about it like this, with his head resting on Brian’s shoulder. He doesn’t even have to look at Brian as he speaks unless he wants to.

So he shrugs, playing with the fraying cuff of Brian’s T-shirt, just to give his fingers something to do. “I still think you could probably do better, darling,” he admits, and he’s smiling, though he’s sure it’s a ghastly one. “I just fuck everything up.”

Brian strokes his back, just the way Freddie likes. “Why do you think that?”

“Oh, you know, dear, the hecklers and all,” Freddie says, waving his hand dismissively. “You would do better with a singer whose Twitter feed  _ doesn’t _ look like mine.”

Brian’s quiet for a moment. “Twitter’s full of assholes,” he says at last.

“Yes, but—but none of the rest of you get so  _ upset _ about it.” Freddie’s growing frustrated just thinking about it, actually, and frustration leads to tears, just like most of his emotions do.  _ God _ , he’s such a child. “You’re not crying after every negative comment,” he says bitterly. He picks a thread loose from Brian’s sleeve and tosses it to the floor. “I should be stronger.”

“Freddie,  _ all _ of us get upset about social media.” Brian squeezes him with one arm, and the other touches him under his chin, tilting his face up towards Brian’s. His lovely eyes are sad. “I’ve had to delete the apps off my phone before. They just make my depression worse, sometimes.”

Freddie frowns. “How could anyone have anything horrible to say about you, darling?” he asks, and he doesn’t really expect an answer, but Brian gives him one anyway.

“I hear about my hair a lot. And my nose.” Brian’s eyes flick to the wall and stick there. “They’ll go after anything you’re sensitive about. It’s—it’s bad for my mental health.”

“Then why are you defending me on platforms that make you sadder?” Freddie exclaims, aghast, propping himself on one elbow.

“I told you—”

“I won’t allow it! I can’t be responsible for that, darling, please.”

“I love you,” Brian says simply, matter-of-factly. Like he’s announcing what time it is, or that the sky is blue, or that the Earth revolves around the Sun. Like it’s an unchangeable fact. “I won’t stop.” He reaches out to his bedside table, picking up his phone from on top of three very large, very heavy-looking books. “It helps to look at the nice ones,” he says, unlocking it. “Ignore the trolls if you can. Look—like this one.” He reads out: “ _ @FreddieMercury I just wanted to say that I think you’re fab. You’ve inspired me to live my life the way I want. Thank you for being so brave! _ ” He smiles. “I might reply to that one. I feel exactly the same way.”

“I’m not brave,” Freddie whispers, though he can’t help the small smile forming on his face as he thinks about the words Brian keeps saying—every day, just like he promised. About everything Brian says to him that couldn’t make him any happier. What did he ever do to deserve so much?

“Of course you are, baby,” Brian says, and he’s smiling, very sweetly.  _ Baby _ , no one’s ever called him that before, and now he wants to hear it over and over and over again.

Freddie lifts himself up to look down at Brian’s face, to stare into his hazel eyes. Their lips join; Freddie’s never kissed anyone else so much in such a short period of time. Well, he’s barely kissed anyone. Their chests are touching and just that small contact makes Freddie’s stomach fill with butterflies. 

He pulls away, aware he’ll have to talk to Brian one day or another about it, so it’s better if he does it now. “I get scared, darling. That’s what I do, who I am. It isn’t what Queen needs, isn’t who Queen’s singer should be, really, is it? And I just—I always wonder how long it’s gonna take before you get rid of me.”

He wishes he could be stronger, show Brian that nothing ever affects him. But telling Brian now is better; if he decides that Freddie isn’t what he wants, then at least it won’t be months too late, when Freddie has already made room for him in his life. When ripping him away will feel like dying. 

“I know it’s because of me that most of our bassists left. I heard Barry, when he told Roger that everything’s just...  _ too much _ with me,” he says quietly, shame making him choke on his own breath. “I know it’s because I’m just too weird, and I’m not as good as you guys say at singing. Barry said it all. I’m so fucked up that he told Roger that there was another band he could be in— _ should _ be in.” He bites his lip, fighting hard not to cry. He doesn’t like to think of Roger not passing the audition and having to come back to Queen when it’s not what he really wants. “It’s just how it is, Bri.”

Brian frowns, and then his face clears up. “I think I understand now, at least a little bit,” he says, and sits up, holding out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Roger.”

“Talk to  _ Roger? _ ” Freddie repeats, horrified. “Darling—I don’t want to hear about how he wanted to join another band, I  _ can’t _ —”

“Freddie,” Brian says. He kisses him, briefly, and—and somehow he isn’t running away. Freddie’s done more than enough to give him an excuse, and he hasn’t taken it. So far, anyway. “Trust me, all right?”

Reluctantly, Freddie follows Brian out of his room and down the hall to Roger’s, clinging to his hand the whole way like a small child. When Roger opens his door, he doesn’t look surprised to see both of them. In fact, his face lights up—he’s been insufferable about having “called it” ever since John spilled the beans over breakfast the day Freddie and Brian got together. Both of them are supportive, though—nothing  _ but _ supportive—though their lack of surprise makes Freddie feel a bit obvious.

“Hel _lo_ , lovebirds,” Roger says now, and then he catches sight of Freddie’s face. His expression falls. “Oh no. What is it? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Freddie says quickly, and he moves to flee back down the hallway—to his room, Brian’s room, the kitchen, whatever it takes at this point. Unfortunately, Brian seems to have read his mind, because in a trice he’s wrapped up in those long arms again, held close to Brian’s chest. He could shove Brian of—Brian’s tall but he’s not exactly a giant—but he doesn’t. He can’t bear to leave any of Brian’s hugs.

“Do you mind telling Freddie the story about what happened with Barry Mitchell and Genesis?” Brian asks politely.

“Oh,  _ that _ asshole,” Roger says, brows lowering over his eyes like thunderclouds. “You really want to dwell on him today? Or  _ any _ day?”

“Please,” Brian says simply.

“Fine. That last gig, Barry was an absolute prick about you,” Roger says to Freddie, and Freddie can tell that he’s furious about it—or about something. Surely not that Barry said some true things about Freddie’s style? “I would’ve thrown him out of the band if he wasn’t leaving. Told him to go fuck himself and never come back.” He glowers at nothing for a moment, then adds, incensed, “He wanted me to join  _ Genesis _ , can you believe it?! They asked me to drum for them but I said  _ fuck _ that, I already have a band with my best mates and we’re going places, and we’ll be even bigger than Genesis. Just you wait!”

Freddie doesn’t know what to say. Roger  _ must _ be lying. He can’t have not considered the deal at all, not with him in the band. He can’t not have realized how much of a fuckup Freddie is when Barry said those things about him—after all,  _ Freddie _ did, and Roger is so much smarter than he is. 

“Really?” he asks in a small voice. He doesn’t know how to feel. He doesn’t know if he should be happy that Roger always wanted to stay or upset that Roger still doesn’t realize that Freddie’s holding them back. With him, they won’t ever be bigger than Genesis.

“Hum—yeah?” Roger says, as if it’s nothing, as if no other outcome should have occurred to Freddie. He spent  _ hours _ feeling bad, wanting to disappear, to tell them how sorry he is for all the trouble he’s causing. All those hours for that. To be told that Roger didn’t even consider it. “He was horrible to you, Fred. He didn’t even deserve to be a part of the band.”

In a way, it’s a relief for Freddie to hear those words, no matter how embarrassed he feels. No matter how wrong he thinks they are. He holds onto Brian’s arms a bit tighter, not quite believing this could have truly happened. 

He nods, and Brian lets go of him to let Roger hug him. He would have probably been sad if Brian let go of him for no reason, but he’ll keep that to himself or else he’ll look too desperate. Not that he isn’t and that Brian doesn’t know, but at least he can make efforts to make it not too obvious. 

“Don’t worry about things like that, mate,” Roger whispers in his ear. 

(He knows Freddie won’t change his opinion about himself just like that, but he does feel like he needs to do everything he can do to help him.)

“I have an announcement too,” John’s voice says from behind them. “Since we’re sharing.”

They all turn, and Deaky’s in the door to his room, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “See,” he says, “I met this girl.”

Roger actually gasps. “ _ What? _ And you didn’t  _ say _ anything? Who is she? How did you meet her?”

Deaky flushes bright red, and he looks so young and sweet and in love. “Her name’s Ronnie,” he says. “She’s a teacher. I met her on the Tube one day. I think…” He pauses, and his blush gets deeper. “I think she might be the one,” he says, quietly, like he can’t believe his own luck.

“Deaks!” Roger cheers, letting go of Freddie to rush John and hug him as well. “Congratulations!”

Freddie’s not alone for long—Brian’s back immediately, wrapping him up in his arms and resting his chin on the top of his head. Freddie glances up at his lovely face, and he hopes that John feels for his Ronnie like he does for Brian. His heart is so full of love. “That’s fantastic, darling,” he says, honestly, his own fears and problems forgotten for the first time in weeks.

“You realize she has to meet us now, don’t you?” Brian asks, and Freddie can tell he’s smiling just from the tone of his voice.

“Yeah, that’s the part I’m afraid of,” Deaky says, but Freddie can tell he doesn’t mean it. He’s smiling too.

Three weeks later, they’re standing in the wings just off stage, watching Ronnie give John one last kiss for luck before rushing off to find a place to stand in the crowd. John waves after her, grinning dopily.

“That,” Roger says, “is a man in love.”

“Our baby’s leaving us,” Freddie says, mock-tearfully. He puts his hands over his heart. “Oh, darling, they grow up so fast.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Deaky says. He’s laughing, though; he’s not cross, he’s not upset. He smiles a lot when Ronnie is around. “Everybody ready?”

They are—Roger has his drumsticks, Deaky his bass, Brian the Red Special. Freddie’s mic stand is held by his side in one hand, the mic itself switched off. He’ll turn it on just before he goes on stage.

“Capacity crowd tonight,” Brian notes. “Great energy, too.” It’s true—even from their tiny dressing room they could hear the people yelling over the music, enjoying themselves hugely. It’s the kind of night they dream of. The sort of night where you can’t go wrong.

One of the roadies catches their eye, waves his hand.

“That’s our cue,” John says.

“One second.” Brian turns to Freddie, eyes glimmering in the dark, the stage lights catching in his hair like a million stars. He bends his head down and kisses him—softly, sweetly. Lovingly. “I love you,” he says, just like he’s said every day, and it hasn’t gotten old. Freddie doesn’t think it ever will.

His heart is so open. He feels like he’s floating, like he’s made of light. There’s no darkness or pain anywhere in the world, because Brian loves him, Brian loves him,  _ Brian loves him _ .

At last, at long last, Freddie believes him.

“I love you too,” he says, just loudly enough to be heard over the crowd.

Brian grins, then turns to follow the other two onto the stage. The crowd roars, and Freddie lingers behind, waits and watches the three of them take their places. Waits for Brian to start up the chords for Keep Yourself Alive. Waits for Brian to look at him, cuing him with his eyes, and mouth another  _ I love you _ .

Freddie takes a deep breath and steps into the spotlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap for this fic, folks!
> 
> As ever, you have been fantastic and completely fabulous readers, and we hope you've enjoyed this wild ride with us! We certainly enjoyed ourselves while writing it. If you're interested in the further misadventures of these insecure little beans, there will be a sequel up—probably sooner rather than later, seeing as we can't stop writing!
> 
> Until next time, darlings!


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